


The Latest Toughs

by AlexKingOfTheDamned



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Gore, Body Image, Canon Trans Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Chronic Pain, Developing Relationship, Eye Trauma, First Orgasm, First Time, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, I will add more as the chapters are posted, Intercrural Sex, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Nightmares, Outing, Pre-Canon, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sexual Tension, Strap-Ons, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 45,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was in some trouble. Trying to flee Tevinter. A tribune and his men caught me in a watertown tavern. Meant to make an example of me... The guards had me on the tavern floor when Bull came inside and yelled for them to stop."</p><p>In which Krem is laid low and Bull spends the rest of his life picking him back up unconditionally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a lot of stuff to be said about this fic! Firstly, I'm writing it with my good friend, whoacrow.tumblr.com (they pronouns for them please) The title is in reference to the song "The Latest Toughs" by Okkervil River
> 
> This story contains what I would consider medium graphic rape. The rape itself isn't exactly the graphic part (though it isn't pussycoddled either) as much as the description of gore after, but if you're not interested in that and you would prefer to read the story itself, you might want to skip to chapter two. I'll put a disclaimer here that no, just because rape has been written, does not mean either me or my partner condone, apologize for, or "enjoy" rape in any regard. It is just as vile and grisly as it's been depicted in the story. I'm not sure it's canon that Krem is raped, but when I heard that part of his dialogue, and considering his transition, I figured it was likely, so this story is meant to explore that. 
> 
> This story is probably going to be a bit winding. Neither me nor my partner have a completely perfect knowledge of DA:I, as we're both working our way through the game for the first time, so we might get some facts or characterizations wrong that we haven't heard about yet where we are in the game. If that's the case please be gentle and spoiler-minded in correcting us, we're still learning as we go on. 
> 
> There will be smut in later chapters, and it will be emotionally messy at first. If that's a trigger for you, I'm putting a warning here ahead of time, but I'll also add one in the chapter itself. I'll be adding more notes if I think of anything else!
> 
> With all that out of the way, thank you for clicking on this story!

Krem guts one of them with a knife immediately. He'd been falling asleep at his little table in the corner, admittedly, stew finished, eyes heavy, having gotten a combined four hours of sleep in the past two days, if that. But drowsy or not, you don't sneak up on a fugitive like that, seizing shoulders instead of hands, leaving your middle undefended and in close range, and hope to keep your innards intact.

 

As blood splattered to the dusty tavern floor moments before the body does and Krem ducks under his table toward the door, he can't really be blamed for thinking he may have a shot of making a successful break for it, given what a poor showing that first man gave in attempting to apprehend him. But that's about when he runs straight into the chest of another man, and then turns around into another, and he is truly confronted with a surge of panic that he is woefully outnumbered.

 

He doesn't go down dignified– there is nothing dignified about fighting for survival, as anyone who grew up as poor as he has knows, and so he gives himself fully to the struggle, kicking and hollering and shrieking, even as a foot connects with his ribcage hard enough that his vision goes red and he's sure he's cracked something.

 

Krem only catches a few key phrases from the tribune during all of this– the bastard probably would have liked to shame him with an entire speech about treachery and disloyalty, given half a moment of relative silence, but all Krem hears is "teach her a lesson", followed by the ripping of his tunic, and his shouts of anger turn to blinding panic.

 

There is even less dignity in this.

 

He wrenches himself from side to side, sending shooting pain into his side, as the Tevinter soldiers pry his thighs open, shoving his trousers down, and Krem was going to fight this, he was going to _fight_ , but he finds himself staring up at the ceiling instead as his chest burns like fire with the force of his screams and fingers shove up inside of him, brutal and dry.

 

The passing Qunari heard the fray long before he came upon it, and long before anybody else in his party heard it. His cone shaped ears pick up the noises of commotion a short jaunt off the path he’d been taking with his Chargers, and he tells his men to wait while he goes and checks out the hullabaloo. If it’s anything serious, he’ll whistle for his Chargers, if not, he can take it on his own. He does rather like hitting things after all, and while the assistance of his men comes in handy, if he can go toe-to-toe on his own, he revels in the opportunity.

 

He traces the sound to a tavern, where people are fleeing from what sounds like one hell of a brawl going inside.

 

“Can’t we help her?” he hears a woman ask her companion as they rush by.

 

He answers with a brisk “That’s not up to us.”

 

Bull’s skin crawls as he imagines the unbalanced fight going on inside, against one poor woman. Shouldering open the door, he’s hit full in the face with the stinking musk of sex, and in one dizzying split second his realization of the situation changes. His eyes sharpen and hyperfocus on the circle of men surrounding the prone body of someone lying pinned down beneath the gripping hands of men several sizes bigger than them.

 

Bull is only vaguely acquainted with the concept of rape. It doesn’t happen in Qunari culture, it just isn’t a thing-- but humans seem to use sex as a weapon, which is the most vile thing he could think of. And ganging up on one person, eight to one, is reprehensible. Punishable, at the very least, by death.

 

“This’ll fix you right up, _girlie_ ,” he hears the man between the trapped person’s thighs say, and he watches him pull his prick out of his trousers.

 

“I’m not a girl!” screams the broken voice of the trapped boy.

 

The pain and terror clenching his voice up tight is what breaks Bull out of his trance, and he swings his axe down off his back with a roared,

 

_“GET OFF OF HIM!”_

 

It feels stupid, for once, to make the effort, to protest being misgendered– but it's that single invalidating remark that lights the fury back inside of Krem where being brutalized had nearly shocked him into silence. And it does make a difference, somehow, for someone he cannot yet see bellows, distracting the soldier long enough for Krem to give a roar of his own and land a kick straight into the jaw of the sour-breathed bastard looming above him.

 

Three men are knocked away by an axe at once, blood spraying in a stripe across Krem's face and the torn material of his binder, and he sees the man then– the Qunari. Rather than waste a moment questioning, the defector yanks his trousers back up and scrambles for a sword from one of the men who have already fallen, even as his ribs protest loudly even above the racing pulse of adrenaline running through him.

 

"LOOK OUT!" Krem shouts before he even realizes what he's seeing– one of the three remaining soldier jumping up to slice a knife across the Qunari's face– and drives his sword through the meat of the man's thigh, missing his chest entirely as he loses his footing almost immediately upon standing up. He gets another kick to the chest for it, close enough to his injured side that he made a strangled noise and blacks out.

 

“Why’re you protectin’ her you big horned plonk?” one of the men snarls, waving his mace like he means to charm a snake.

 

“That’s a man,” Bull says in lieu of any answer. He doesn’t really want to launch into why it’s wrong to _fucking rape someone_. He knows for certain he heard the victim boy say he wasn’t a girl.

 

The man gives a horrible, sneering laugh. “You’re wrong,” he spits. “She’s got a cunt an’ everything.”

 

“I think he’d know better than you,” Bull isn’t sure of the situation, but he knows that he’d believe the words of the boy getting raped over any of these men. He raises his axe to anticipate the attack, but the man turns. He expected he would run, and pales when he sees that mace being lifted straight towards the struggling, semi-conscious form of the ginger boy.

 

He doesn’t have time to think. He’s had a history of acting before thinking about it, but in this case taking action is justifiable no matter the consequences. He lunges and tackles the man and the next time that mace comes swinging down towards the prone boy just as he’s reaching consciousness, Bull throws himself in between the mace and the intended victim. He figures, no matter what, he has a better chance of taking the blow. He spends the next several years to come wondering if there had been a better course of action.

 

One of the spikes drives directly into his eye. Pain like he’s never felt sears through his body and down his spine, punching all the air out of his lungs. He’s been set on fire and it was less painful than this. His roar shakes the ceiling, splinters the floor boards, or at least, his pain is so intense he thinks it ought to. The only justification for a body’s ability to be in this much pain should be some divine intervention that makes the rest of the world around it match.

 

The mace has stuck fast into his skull and he wrenches it out of the man’s hands, swinging his axe with blood dying his face crimson and blurring his vision, but he knows he hit home when the slick squelch of viscera splatters across his feet as the man is cleaved evenly in two.

 

Krem feels barely a whisper of air on his face from the blow meant for him, and for long minutes he can't so much as lift his face without without the tavern seeming to tip sideways and his guts threatening to spew out his mouth. It's hard enough just getting a decent breath of two with his ribs protesting against the entire necessary process.

 

He hears it all though– he'd have to be dead not to hear that Qunari roaring in profound agony, and he even vaguely hears him arguing with one of the soldier about... about him. When the floor jumps beneath his head, at first Krem thinks the great beast has fallen, but when no one grabs at him again, he finally manages to lift himself up to see the last soldier had dropped dead inches from him.

 

Krem spits on his bloodied face, and pulls himself up more, to see the ox-man kneeling down, presumably to check on him. One of his large hands, one that Krem notes is missing a couple fingers, covers his eye.

 

" _Kaffas_ , is it _gone?"_ he wheezes out, and then groans, covering his injured side and his chest both.

 

“I’ve had worse,” Bull says flippantly as blood and the ichor from his eye gushes between his fingers. “Can you stand? We have to get you out of here and cleaned up. You need medical attention. I have a medic in my party.”

 

"Worse than losing an eye?" Krem asks, because it's easier than addressing anything else the Qunari is saying, like that he's inexplicably intending to get Krem fixed up just like he just jumped in and saved a stranger– a _Tevinter_ stranger, or that the idea of getting examined in any way is filling him with heart racing panic.

 

“Well I can’t think of any _right now_ ,” Bull’s voice is tight with pain, but there’s humor in it nevertheless-- laugh to keep from crying, he’s always thought. “I just lost an eye, go easy on me!”

 

Krem works himself up to his knees, and amazingly, to his feet, his knuckles turning white as he grips the back of a chair and tries to breathe, looking out at the empty tavern and the bodies of the soldiers. "Why would y–" he begins, but even that much is taking more air than he can really spare while standing at the same time, and his knees buckle.

 

“Whoa, lad,” Bull stoops down and catches Krem with his free hand, looping up underneath his armpit. His hand presses into the soft flesh of Krem’s breast, making the boy panic, but Bull just clicks his tongue. “I don’t care what’s in your smalls. You can’t walk half a mile to the beach. I can either carry you or drag you by the foot, it’s your call.”

 

"Kaffas, fine," Krem concedes. Regardless of the Qunari's reasons for helping him, he's right at least about the fact that Krem's not likely to make it out of the building without help– or past the week, without a healer's attention, but he's trying to think about that part yet.

 

And perhaps the fact that the ox-man might the first person who doesn't care about what's in his smalls, if he's telling the truth, might have a little to do with Krem's ultimate decision as well.

 

Krem makes a panicked squawk as the Qunari lifts him up, but he's like a sack of flour to the man, even injured as he is, and no amount of his initial flailing disrupts his ability to scoop him up and walk steadily out of the tavern, turning slightly to accommodate his horns through the doorway.

 

"I don't even know your name," he murmurs faintly, as he watches people who must have run from the tavern earlier duck around corners to avoid the both of them.

 

“I’m The Iron Bull,” Bull replies. “The _The_ is very important, I’ll bop you on the noggin if you forget to use it.” When Krem makes no note of his humor, he clears his throat and amends, “That was a joke.”

 

Krem snorts, which makes his ribs hurt, and groans, which makes his ribs hurt. He might be detecting a pattern. It hurts all the more, as panic and adrenaline wears off, as do the bruises that are undoubtedly forming on his upper arms, his inner thighs... more than that too, but he's not thinking about that.

 

"Cremisius Aclassi," he says in return, "Krem, for short... thank you." Even though it hurts, he pulls at his tunic, covering himself better, and tries not to think about what a healer is going to need access to.

 

“I’ve got two healers in my party, a male mage and a female herbalist,” Bull says as he takes the long way around logs and rocks to avoid jostling the boy in his arms. “Which would you prefer? I would assume the woman, but... well, I don’t want to assume. You’re the one who just did a tango in the worst way. Either way, you’re going to need to be looked at all over-- I can promise you the professionalism of both my healers.”

 

Krem stiffens at "the worst way" almost as bad as he stiffens at "all over". He shakes his head. “Just need a spell for my ribs– the mage, then, if you're offering," he replies, watching out down the winding path The Iron Bull is taking for signs of a camp. "That's all I need looked at," he says, everything in his voice proclaiming that he's not looking for a debate. No need for the Qunari's promises, if a spell through his clothes is all he's interested in.

 

Bull gives a weary sigh. “Lad, I just lost an eye from the people who pinned you down, least you can do is live. If you don’t get looked at all over-- and I do mean _all over_ \-- you’ll catch an infection and take my eye with you to the grave next week. I’m not going to force you to do anything, you’ve had enough of that, I think. But you’d be doing yourself the ultimate disservice by pretending it didn’t happen. On the one hand, they raped you, on the other, they killed you, and you’ve got to pick which you’d rather be true.”

 

It all happened too fast– they roughed him up, kicked him around, his clothes got torn. Nothing else happened– nothing _truly_ bad happened. His skin feels clammy where the Qunari is holding him, and maybe something else happened, but he's determined not to let it be any different than any of the other injuries he sustained.

 

Krem still sees their faces when he closes his eyes, hating him to his core, but they are dead now.

 

The bulk of what the Bull said, Krem can't begin to address, but the first thing is what sticks in his mind. He lost an eye over a complete stranger. It confounds Krem, that anyone would do that.

 

"I don't know how I can repay you," he says, and that he isn't continuing to argue against being examined suggests he's at least considering it, even if acknowledging that it's going to happen is currently too much to think on.

 

“You can repay me by keeping your skinny ass alive,” Bull says as he rounds a cliff edge, and spots his team, lounging around on a rocky shore. They spring to their feet with whispers and calls of their bosses return, the healers immediately running up to inspect him and the boy in his arms.

 

“What happened? Why didn’t you call for us!?” the female healer, Stitches, cries out.

 

“I had it under control,” Bull shrugs a shoulder as he hands Krem to the mage. “None of his clothes come off and you don’t lay a hand on him until you talk to me first, understand? Put him in a tent and let him rest, and let’s see what we can do about the whole _I’m-missing-a-body-part_ thing first.”

 

When Krem is helped down onto a cot, he doesn't believe for a moment that he's going to be able to actually rest, with his ribs aching as they are, alone in a tent surrounded by strangers, alone with his thoughts for the first time since before he'd been attacked.

 

He finds himself thinking most about the Iron Bull, the way he ordered that Krem not be touched– not yet, at least– the fact that Krem is the reason the Qunari's life just took a turn for the unmistakable worse. The man must be some sort of mercenary, with the rag tag company Krem got a glimpse of, and now he's down an eye.

 

It's somewhere in the middle of feeling guilty about that, that Krem must have fallen asleep just like he thought he couldn't. When he wakes up, it isn't to one of the healers putting their hands on him, but instead to Bull, sitting down on the other side of the little tent, so not a great distance away at all. Krem stares at the bandage on his eyes... he doesn't want to ask if really is gone, but he can't look away, either.

 

“Yeah, it’s gone,” Bull shrugs, as though it’s honestly no big deal. “Fellas like me lose body parts all the time, I’m not bothered. I’m sure I’ll adjust to the whole no depth perception thing soon enough. I needed a few new facial scars anyway, the old ones were starting to fade and I didn’t look as ruggedly handsome anymore. You haven’t been touched yet, I wanted a chance to talk with you before I talked to them. You’re Aqun-Athlok, right?”

 

Krem stares at the Bull in open disbelief. You don't just get over losing an eye, but if that's how he's coping with it Krem can hardly work up the energy to question him about it, either. Especially with something much more confusing monopolizing his attention.

 

"Aqun-Athlok?" he repeats, his Tevinter accent emphasizing the wrong parts.

 

“Mm, I’m not sure of a Trade translation. I guess it would be like... you were born wrong. Your spirit was put in the wrong vessel. Someone in the divine process of creating you picked bits from the wrong bin. You’ve got the wrong parts so to speak. Am I wrong?” Bull’s voice is somehow simultaneously firm and gentle.

 

The look of confusion and disbelief on Krem's face doesn't change, but he shakes his head cautiously. "You're... not wrong," he says, and opens and closes his mouth a couple more times before finally getting out, "There's a _word_ for that, under the Qun?" To have a word for it aside from something like "degenerate" or "rebellious" would certainly be something.

 

"And how are these... Aqun-Athlok regarded?" he asks, "Are they treated like real men, or...?"

 

“They _are_ real men,” Bull insists, firmly but not unkindly. “ _And_ women. The way humans and elves sort out their men and women is questionable at best. They feel the need to assign it based on whether you can bear children or... shoot them out of your dick. The Qunari are a bit less rigid about it. There are males and females but it’s never been based on body, but spirit. And, occasionally, vocation. Being male or female is entirely optional, some opt out entirely. I’ll speak with my healers on the matter to let them know, hopefully I can get them to see reason. It’s hard to discuss these matters with humans, they’re so damn convinced that men and women have something to do with whatever’s been chucked up between your thighs.”

 

Krem makes a noise in his throat, starting to sit up until his ribs protest and he thinks better of it. "Maybe they aren't so bad after all," he says with some humor.

 

It's still hard not to wait for the other shoe to drop– people are never this accepting... but he hasn't exactly spent any time up close and personal with a Qunari before, either. "The woman," he says abruptly, looking away, "I know I said the man, before, but... the woman, I think... that would be better."

 

“I think you’re right,” Bull nods. “I’ll have stitches tend to your lower wounds, and Carlisle will handle the rest with healing spells. As far as I see it, nobody besides Stitches needs to know your parts. I noticed you were using some kind of vest to hide your betrayal?” he gestures to Krem’s chest. “It’s wrecked now, but I could get you a new one if you tell me what it was made out of.”

 

Krem nods along with Bull's plan, because it's fair, it's reasonable, and the mere idea of being touched in any capacity right now makes his throat closed up and his belly churn, well, he's just going to have to ignore that part. He's survived yellow sickness and a gut wound both, this is hardly as bad as that.

 

A grown man doesn't let himself waste away with infection because he's squeamish. It's just like The Iron Bull was saying. He tells Bull what materials to look for, but adds with a sigh, "I'd wanna see how well this spell fixes me up first, though... can't bind with blasted broken ribs."

 

“That’s true,” Bull rubs his chin in thought. “You know, there might be a possibility through either magic or surgery of getting them... removed entirely. I could look into that, if you’d be interested. Not sure I could do anything about the southern hemisphere, but there might be people who could fix you up so you don’t have to bind yourself breathless every day.”

 

"You're really something, chief," Krem says with a shake of his head and a weak chuckle that makes his ribs flare up bad. He lays his head back down on the cot and tries to figure out how he was managing to draw at least half-full breaths a moment ago, because it isn't easy again.

 

There's no real getting around it, he's got to get looked at. Maybe it's because the Iron Bull was the one to get him out of that tavern alive, or because Krem can't see any hesitation in his eyes when he calls him a man, after probably catching a glimpse of his tits and everything, but he finds himself wishing he didn't have to bring anyone else in to get him fixed up, or at least wishing Bull would stay while it happened.

 

Not that he says that. He clears his throat as gently as he can, instead, and finally concedes. "I'd– better get– seen now," he gasps out.

 

Bull nods and ducks out of the tent. Only a few minutes later, Stitches returns to his side with a basket full of herbs on one hip, tying her white-blonde hair up effortlessly with the other hand.

 

“Bull told me all about you,” she says as she kneels down and starts to sort through the herbs, breaking off and crushing up a few dried leaves into a pre-prepared paste. “And about what happened. I’m mad as a hornet he didn’t invite us along, we all would’ve liked to tear into a pack of mad dogs like them, but maybe it’s for the best we didn’t, for your sake. Would you like something to cover your face while I tend to you? Or if you think you can manage, we could do this with you on your hands and knees.”

 

"All about me," Krem repeats, twitching with nervous energy, and replies, "It's fine... I don't think I could." How deranged is it that while most of him wants to run away or vomit at the idea of taking his clothes off and seeing what was done to him, a distinct part of him is wondering how he didn't notice how _pretty_ Stitches is?

 

Fasta vass, he wants to be _anywhere_ but here. Well. Not Tevinter.

 

"It's fine," he says again, steeling himself, "Do what you must."


	2. Chapter 2

Stitches is as swift as she is gentle, and she applies the healing salve with as few motions as possible while Krem tries to stare a hole through the ceiling of the tent. She wraps a length of bandages around his thighs and groin like a diaper with a promise to teach him the first time how to change them and apply more salve so that he can do it from then on and only report if something looks strange or different.

 

She lies to their mage Carlisle, telling him that he is unequivocally a man who by some force of nature grew breasts, and that if he dared to spread a single rumor, she would personally cut off his cock. He seemed to get the idea, and tended to Krem barely speaking a word. His ribs aren’t completely healed, but at least with the spell they’ve been put back in place so there’s no chance of puncturing a lung, and the rest of his minor injuries are dealt with a simple healing potion.

 

Krem is finally allowed some real sleep, after that. He’s not certain how long he was asleep, only that the sky is slightly lighter when he wakes up, indicating that at least 24 hours have passed. He’s dazed for a while before a scout comes by, as Bull had ordered someone to check on him every hour for news if he’d awoken. She dashes off instantly to give Bull the good news, and he ducks away from the feast to visit the boy himself.

 

“You woke up just in time,” he says, stooping almost in half to stand in the tent that could hold a human comfortably upright. “Guiles came back last night with good news for us-- well, good news for us, me and my men, not for you specifically-- so we’re celebrating. We’ve had to stay on this beach with you out like a torch, but I sent a few boys into town to pick up bread and cheese and mead and the girls went hunting and brought back a feast, we’ve just started eating. Do you feel up to joining us?”

 

Krem notices the dull ache between his legs is gone before he even notices he can take a full breath now with only minor pain. It wasn't the thing that demanded his conscious attention the most before he'd been healed, but it was the sort of discomfort where the weight of its presence is apparent now that it's gone. He doesn't feel like vomiting anymore... it's going to be alright now, just like he was determined for it to be.

 

All the Bull really has to do is mention food, and Krem's stomach growls audibly. "I'm starved," he says, as if its necessary, and pauses to pull on the two other tunics laid out for him. They were probably meant to be options, but the more loose layers he's got on while he's not binding, the safer he'll feel.

 

When he stands up, he's still a little unsteady, but it's likely as much to do with what food is about to remedy as anything else. "Thank you, Bull," he says, as the Qunari lifts the tent flap for him to exit.

 

“Hey, what did I tell you about the _The?”_ Bull teases, supporting Krem with an easy hand to his upper back, prepared to catch him if he tumbles. His healers did a bang up job on the boy, but that doesn’t mean he should be taking any nose-dives into the dirt any time soon.

 

===

 

Krem has his first nightmare about the tavern that night, and wakes up covered in sweat and shaking, uncertain whether the screaming he'd done within the dream had actually been voiced, but no one says anything the next morning, to his relief.

 

He finds work patching up clothes as soon as he can find someone willing to give him something to do– which isn't especially easy, given that the Iron Bull gave orders to make him rest. But sewing isn't very taxing, and he's good at it besides, his father having been a tailor. As the next two days go by, he thinks a lot about his family, about his original plans to send money back to his mother when he's able. He wonders when he'll be in a position to do that.

 

The third morning, he wakes up to the sounds of a camp preparing to pick up and leave, and there's a sinking feeling in his belly when he emerges from his tent to confirm. He pitches in to help– it's the least he can do, now that he's nearly healed up– and keeps an eye out for the Bull... so he can say his farewells, he tells himself, even though he spends the morning rehearsing a speech in his head to convince the Bull to let him join.

 

He comes to the conclusion that Bull is nowhere among the camp, and his suspicion is confirmed when he asks Stitches, who said she saw him head off ahead, possibly to scout, but he didn’t exactly say where he was going, only that he wanted everybody packed up and ready to move when he got back.

 

He packs up and rolls tents with the others, he wraps up glass vials and potion bottles so they don’t bang together in transit and break, he helps feed the horses that haul the carts, and as the sun climbs higher in the sky, there’s still no sign of Bull’s return.

 

It isn’t until midday that he sees the massive silhouette of Bull in the distance, and he’s a little embarrassed by the imprinted puppy reaction he has internally. He’s able to keep it under wraps as Bull draws nearer with a big satchel on his back that could probably comfortably fit Krem inside.

 

“Krem!” he calls out to the redhead as the boy weaves between the straggling packers up to him. “I’ve got something for you. Well, I got a bunch of stuff, but also something for you, hold on.”

 

He sets down the sack and starts to rifle through it. “I got all the materials you wanted, hopefully you know how to make the... tit sheath yourself, because I’ve got no clue. I also went ahead and bought you some new armor, I had to just guess your size, but it looks like it’ll fit,” he holds up a flat, masculine breastplate, hanging open with the thick leather belts and clasps hanging from the sides. “I got red because I think you’d look cute in red.”

 

Krem balks, staring at the breastplate with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open. It looks like something that would have taken him months to afford, with the way things have been going, and with the necessary cost of traveling further South looming over his head.

 

"You must know I can't accept this," he says, when he gets his mouth working again, "I owe you my _life_ , Bull, I can't leave with this debt on top of everything else!"

 

Bull throws his head back with a booming, belly laugh. “Leave? Brother, please. You might have been able to desert the Tevinter military that easily, but not the Bull’s Chargers. And I’m not letting a member of my party go armorless, it’s suicide.”

 

"A–" Krem shuts his mouth, looking at the Bull with a sort of bewildered surprise that gets the Qunari laughing all the more.

 

Leaving his position had been more than just that– after all the effort he'd put into learning to fight and learning to blend in while doing it, being a soldier was more than just an occupation for Krem. He hoped to find a group or a cause worthy of dedicating his sword to in Thedas, but admittedly escaping execution or enslavement has been his main priority up until now.

 

And now this Qunari, who Krem personally witnessed losing an eye for a complete stranger from a land his people hates, is asking him to join his company. Not asking– he already considers him a member.

 

"I'll earn this and more for you, chief," Krem says finally, his voice tight, and then amends, "Boss."

 

“You can keep calling me chief, I like it,” Bull puffs his chest out. “I’ve been called all sorts of things-- boss, commander, captain, shepherd, BS... but chief is new. It’s sexy. Speaking of, I’m going to whip some muscle mass into you yet, boy. As soon as your southern territory has a clean bill of health and you’re walking without pain, you’re going to be on your feet with the rest of the men, and we’re going to get some muscle on you. That means big eating and big training, and I’ll have no lip from you, hear?”

 

"Chief it is," Krem says with a laugh, and adds with a stubborn jutting of his chin, "You won't see me whingin' about a little training."

 

Although tight knit, all but Bull's right hand take to Krem much the same way that Bull did after about a week, beckoning him to join them by the fire each night and goading him to tell stories about the pranks his fellows soldiers used to pull in training.

 

And just as the Bull promised, Krem is put to work as soon as he's fit to do so, and Krem puts his all into it, motivated both by the Qunari's praise when he finishes out another round of training strong, despite the sweat dripping down his face and the trembling of his muscles, and by the discovery that if he goes to bed worn down enough, he doesn't dream nearly as much.

 

Not nearly as much still means sometimes, though, and on those nights, Krem usually winds up rising before anyone else and walking out to the center of camp to wake the dying ashes of the previous night's fire. One of those mornings, he rubs his sore arms as he pokes at the fire pit, thinking back to the previous evening with a fond smile rather than the dreams that woke him. Bull had invited him to spar for the first time, and it was exhilarating. He'd fallen on his ass eventually, of course, but Bull seemed surprised at how long he'd held out, and Krem was willing to see that as a compliment.

 

A snap of a twig behind him pulls Krem out of his thoughts with a yelp of surprise. He looks over his shoulder to see Ward.

 

"Kaffas," Krem says, forcing himself to lower his shoulders, even though the man always makes him tense even when he isn't surprising him, "Sorry."

 

“I know what you’re trying to do,” Ward’s tone is severe, and he doesn’t even bother with a greeting. “You’re trying to take my job. You’re cozying up to the boss and waiting for him to replace me with you.”

 

“What?” Krem blurts, startled.

 

“It won’t work,” Ward carries on, undeterred. “I’m too good at my job. Bull just fancies you right now because you’re the cute new plaything, it’ll wear off and you’ll become another face in the Chargers. You need to step down or I’ll make you. You aren’t going to endanger my position. _I’m_ the next in line to take over the Chargers, I won’t let you endanger that.”

 

Krem snorts, swallowing down fear and irritation both– this man is clearly touched in the head, to be getting worked up over a newcomer like him, and Krem isn't about to pushed around by anybody. He shoves the stick he'd been holding into what was becoming a decent fire, and turns around on the log he's sitting on.

 

"I'm not _trying_ anything, comrade," he says, "Just training up so I can pull my own weight– if that's all it takes to get you worried, well, maybe you ought'a worry about yourself more."

 

“Don’t _comrade_ me,” Ward snarls. “I’ve been highly trained in espionage and I know a flowering plot when I see one, you can’t fool me with your baby face and charming smiles. If you don’t back off, I’ll tell the Bull that you’ve a plot to assassinate him once you get cozy enough with him. He’ll believe me, I’m his second in command for a reason, and he’ll kick you out. You’d better watch yourself.”

 

"The Bull wouldn't do that," he says, but does he know that? For certain? The Bull might like him alright, but they don't have history, in the end, Krem can't expect to be believed over his second in command.

 

"Do you do this with every new recruit, sir?" he asks standing up and holding Ward's hard stare like he isn't several inches shorter and at least two stone heavier than him, "It must keep you very busy." For a moment, he's certain Ward is about to raise his hand to him, when they both hear the unmistakable deep yawn of their Qunari leader, and nearing footsteps. Ward's shoulders drop, but Krem doesn't look away from him.

 

“Morning, sir,” Ward snaps to attention. “Just been out here tending to the fire with Aclassi.”

 

“That’s nice,” Bull rubs at his good eye, the other still wrapped under bandages that get changed every other day by Stitches. Krem still has a hard time looking at the bandages sometimes. “Couldn’t be bothered to fix up my cider, though?”

 

“T- That was the next step sir--” Ward fumbles, and Bull laughs.

 

“Don’t worry about it, not your job. Nice to see you two getting along now, though. Thought you’d be hissing like cats forever,” he steps between them, not dropping a single step as he reaches up and ruffles the hair of both men simultaneously, his hands large and rough enough that both of them are knocked off kilter for a moment as he passes by to go find a spot to piss.

 

Ward narrows his eyes sharply at Krem before turning on his heel and presumably going off to find out how to prepare the cider that Bull drinks every morning.

 

Krem blows out a breath, watched Ward go, and sits back down to poke build the fire some more. He doesn't want to avoid the Bull– he's willing to admit that he likes the attention he's gotten, and it's infuriating that Ward can't see that that's just how Bull is, despite knowing him far longer than Krem.

 

But in the end, what choice does he really have? He's just joined up, the last thing he wants to do is jeopardize the first good thing that's happened to him in a long time. Maybe if he lays low for a while, Ward will realize there's nothing to worry about, and drop the matter. Krem can't really see that happening, but it's all he's got. He's in no position to make the man back down, and even if it would work to bring it up to the Bull, his pride would never allow it.

 

The problem with Ward's threats, and Krem's plan, of course, is that no one has let the Bull in one the whole "Krem isn't talking to the Bull as much" thing. There's no avoiding the man, which means Krem just gets more and more distracted during training, feeling like he's going to turn around and see Ward's stupid face glaring at him for daring to be a good soldier.

 

 _Vasta fass_ , Krem knows the Bull just gave an instruction (he's supervising his training again, of course), but Krem wasn't listening.

 

"What was that?" he says, hating himself a little for needing to ask.

 

Bull sighs and his axe droops. “I said I’m going to cut your ears off, since you don’t seem to be using them.” he buries the blade in the soft earth and wraps an arm around Krem’s shoulders. “Come on.”

 

“I don’t need--” Krem starts, but Bull’s hand tightens on his shoulder and it occurs to Krem that he could probably break his collarbone just by squeezing.

 

“Not optional,” Bull’s voice is firm as he leads Krem away from the camp his Chargers had made up. Krem sees Ward’s gaze follow them from the other side of camp, but he can’t do anything about it as he follows beside Bull. The Qunari leads him to a little clearing with a spring and sits him down on a log. “What the shit has gotten into you lately?” he questions, a little sharper than he meant to. “A month ago you were perfect, are you getting cold feet? Do you not want to be here?”

 

"No!" Krem blurts, and this his eyes widen, "I mean– yes! Of course I want to be here! I've never–" His voice is frantic, and he badly needs it not to be, if he's ever going to convince the Bull that there's nothing bad going on. "I've never felt so at home, to tell the truth," he admits, "I'm sorry, chief, I know I need to do better, and I will, I promise."

 

Bull’s face softens to the boy’s plea immediately, so he crosses his arms to maintain his aura of intimidation and sternness. “Then what in the hell is wrong? You’ve been acting like your head’s on backwards for a couple weeks now. You seem jumpy, is something going on? Are you being bullied? Some of the guys pick on new recruits sometimes. Or are you worried about people finding out about your betrayal?”

 

“I didn’t betray--” Krem starts, but Bull chuckles and holds up a hand.

 

“Not that. I mean,” Bull gestures to Krem’s body. “I figure I’ve got to call it something vague. We’re being _sneaky_ about it after all.”

 

Krem crosses his arms, looking to the side. "'Not sure 'betrayal' is going to do a good job at not drawing attention," he tells him, "'Not sure I like the sound of it, myself, either."

 

When the Bull nods easily as anything, agrees to find another way to put it, Krem looks back again, surprised. He's not sure he's ever going to get used to how easily the Qunari accepts his preferences on everything to do with his identity. But the man still looks at him expectantly, and he doesn't know what to tell him.

 

"Could you just– I'm handling it," Krem says finally, "I'll do better. If it keeps being a problem, I'll let you know. Until then, could you trust me, chief? A man's got to handle stuff himself, sometimes, you know?"

 

“I could agree to that if you were actually handling it, but you look like you’re one bad night’s sleep away from getting an arrow in the neck because you weren’t paying attention,” Bull unfolds his arms and takes Krem by the shoulders. His hands are so large that his thumbs rest against his collarbones and meet at the hollow of his throat. “You’re not just a man, you’re my man, and while my men have to handle their stuff, I have to handle my men. Is there somebody I need to beat up for you? I’ll fight anybody, you name it. Is it me? I’ll kick my own ass.”

 

Krem ducks his head, half stifling a laugh that comes out as a sharp exhale through his nose at the image of the Bull whipping his leg around to give his own ass a kick. But the Qunari's hands are still heavy on his shoulders, and he makes a frustrated noise, unable to think of a way to get out of this.

 

"Just give me a day to sort things out," he bargains, "Half a day? The... person... that's bothering me is being a right prick, but I’d really rather solve it myself. They'll just hate me more if I bother you with it."

 

“Hate you? Is it Ward?” Bull asks astutely, and when Krem’s eyes widen slightly in surprise at having the nail hit squarely on the head, Bull sighs and takes a step back, doing a half-spin in frustration. “Damn it, I’m sorry, Ward’s-- he’s complicated. He came from a whole family of spies, mother, father, brothers, and sister, they were all spies, and his whole life has been nothing but one emotional massacre after another. His family spent his whole life sniping at eachother, which has made him guarded to say the very least. It took him more than a year to trust me enough to turn his back to me. He’s a very unhappy and paranoid man, just about anything will set him off, but he’s toothless for the most part. He won’t hurt you, or anything. He’ll probably just glare at you a lot, the worst he could do is pair you off in teams where he thinks you won’t do any good when he’s in charge of splitting the party for missions, but you can prove him wrong by being a damn good soldier no matter what he tries to throw at you.”

 

Krem can't help feeling uneasy, having the Iron Bull know that it's been Ward giving him a hard time, but he could certainly imagine it going worse. At least it's clear the Qunari instantly understands, at least he believes Krem, now that it's out. And the solution he gives Krem is certainly something he can get behind.

 

"That I can do," he says with a sharp nod, "Sorry I let it distract me, Bull– I won't let it be a problem again." He'll make the Bull proud by putting everything into his work. Krem has a debt to pay, to a man he actually respects– fuck Ward for trying to get in the way of that. "Can I... go back to training, now?"

 

Bull gives a laugh. “Yes, alright. You can go back to training, now.”

 

Ward is eyeing them just as hard as they come back out, but Bull beams a smile at him, which receives an eye roll and an indignant huff in return from the man. “Just kick his ass with kindness, that’s what I always do,” he tells Krem with a smile before retrieving his axe from the earth. “Now, where was I? Ah, right, I was kicking your ass.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor sexual content in this chapter, oh boy!

In the weeks that pass, Krem does his best to seem as innocuous as possible. Bull is making it impossible to avoid him, not that Krem really even wants to, but he tries to seem as innocent as he actually is of the charges Ward has pulled out of thin air to accuse him with. Ward does his best to thwart Krem at every turn, but Krem rolls with the punches to the best of his ability-- Ward’s plan even seems to be backfiring on him, because Bull is often proud of Krem’s accomplishments in the face of seemingly endless and directionless adversity.

 

Bull doesn’t let on that he knows Ward is giving Krem a hard time, he figures that would only make things worse. If he sees things take a turn for the dangerous, he’ll step in and have words with Ward, but for now it seems like petty child’s play. When he assigns Krem to cleanup, the camp winds up spotless. When he sends Krem on a wild goose chase, he’ll come back with his satchel full of herbs for Stitches at the very least. When he makes Krem stay behind at the camp while others go out, Krem tosses together a stew for everyone to come back to.

 

Ward is inadvertently making Krem a very popular member of the Chargers indeed. In his efforts to put him some place where he can’t possibly succeed, he’s saddled him beside almost every group possible-- the medics, the archers, the warriors, the mages, the assassins-- and he’s found a way to work well with all of them. Ward couldn’t possibly be more furious.

 

It's not like Krem has never been hazed– he'd spent several years in the Tevinter military, after all, with no connections or magic to improve his standing when he joined. There's something thrilling about exceeding expectations, and about getting to figuratively flip off someone he feels pretty justified in hating all at the same time.

 

Now that he is assured that Ward doesn't really have the power to lie to the Bull about him, Krem can comfortably react in what would have been his strategy in the first place– in what would have been his strategy even if he wasn't being made to it, since it's still the most sure-fire way to knock him out at night. As it is, Ward has nothing he can use against Krem that'll actually make a difference.

 

Which isn't to say Krem necessarily _likes_ running into Ward on what is supposed to be a rare evening to eat and and drink and be merry, so when he spots the man, he ducks down with his supper in hand and sneaks away, to chorus of snickers and "uh oh"s of the other warriors he had been eating with (most people can tell Ward has some kind of grudge at this point, he's not really subtle.)

 

Still eating from his plate, Krem walks down the hill and through a small cluster of trees, in the hopes of coming around to the other side of camp and finding Stitches or someone without running into Ward. What he happens upon instead are the shadows of two people definitely doing something a little more than sharing a meal. Krem ducks his head, intending to pass on by without looking, when he hears what is unmistakable the Bull, and he can't... _quite_... keep from glancing.

 

Setting his plate down on a log he creeps cautiously to the edge of a rocky outcropping and peers around. He tells himself it’s just to confirm if it’s Bull or not-- which is a stupid reason anyway, considering what would he even do with that information-- and he finds to his shock that it’s not only the Bull, but he’s accompanied by the son of the noble they’d just finished a job for that day.

 

The job had been routine, but the noble’s son seemed to take a shine to the Bull, and at the time Krem had just figured it was because Bull is big and likeable and radiates an aura of safety, but now Krem is starting to figure out it’s something far, far more primal than that. The boy is bent over a boulder at the waist, his burning cheek laid against the rock and his tunic gathered up in his teeth to keep quiet. Even so, Krem can hear little grunts and gasps from him as Bull moves atop him, herculean and shimmering silver in the naked moonlight.

 

“If your father could see you now,” he hears Bull’s voice rumble like thunder, and the noble’s son gives a whispery laugh, followed immediately by a moan. Krem can’t stay, he knows that much. He stumbles away before either of them have a chance to look up and spot him.

 

"Evenin'," Stitches says when Krem comes up the hill to sit down between her and Rocky at the fire, his mind still a whirl of new information.

 

"Evening," he replies, "Just thought I'd come and eat with your lot."

 

Stitches quirks a brow, and Krem looks around himself, confused, and then blushes when he realizes he left the plate of food on the log, his mind in an entirely different place when he passed it. "Oh, haha, I got so hungry, I ate it all on the way here," he explains, and no one looks like they believe him, but they laugh anyways, and he shrugs it off, scooting a little closer to the fire... as if he needs to get any warmer, with the curious heat in his belly still flickering.

 

Gay, then... Krem isn't sure what that says about _him_ , when he looks up at Stitches and gets the same heart flutter he usually does, looking at a pretty girl. Krem shakes his head and tries to catch up with the conversation resuming around him.

 

“I dunno what you were up to today when we were chasin’ that pig around, but man, you should’ve seen me and Blighter. We made this ingenious trap, she and I, with ropes and shit, and we didn’t even catch that stupid prized slab of pork. We thought about luring Ward into it and then figured it wasn’t worth the trouble we’d get into, but boy did we have a laugh over it.”

 

Her story is half-lost on Krem, who looks very distracted, and she leans in to set a hand on his knee. “Krem? Are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 

"I'm good, I'm fine!" Krem says with a smile, shaking his thoughts away, "Maker, some pig would'a been nice after all this rabbit."

 

"Well, don't make me feel bad!" Sitches complains, knocking her knuckles against his arm and making him laugh. "Next time, lend a hand, or you don't get to say a word."

 

"Ward had me shining armor all afternoon," Krem says with a shrug.

 

"We're not really a 'shined armor' kind of group," Rocky says, prompting an immediate "Right?" from Krem. He settles back against the log, relieved to have avoided explaining his distractedness, and goes back to what has been a fairly regular habit lately of letting himself be charmed by the elf. At some point, later in the night, he convinces himself to speak up, already. Stitches already knows his secret, after all.

 

Bull's definitely having fun tonight, what harm could it do to at least talk to Stitches about his feelings?

 

"Hey, uh... D'you mind if I ask you something?" Krem asks the elf quietly when the others are distracted, indicating is chin behind him, down the hill.

 

“Sure thing,” Stitches sets down the mortar she’d been grinding elfroot into paste with and loops an arm into Krem’s, bidding the others a temporary farewell to the sounds of whistles behind them. Stitches shakes her head with a laugh as she brings Krem down the hill where they’re alone behind a rock in the moonlight. “What’s up?” she prompts when Krem seems to hesitate. “Is this about your old injuries? They haven’t done anything strange lately, have they?”

 

"Ah, no," Krem answers, ducking his head and kicking up some dirt. That was... sort of the exact opposite of the place he wanted to take this, but in retrospect he can't really blame her for jumping to that. He smiles, trying to rally. "I was just wondering... if you'd, perhaps, like to spend some time with me, alone, some time?"

 

Maker, he said "some time" twice, could it be any more clear that he's not exactly practiced at this?

 

“Alone?” she repeats, and it dawns on her a moment later and she gives a little laugh. When Krem’s face crumples into humiliated regret, she clicks her tongue and reaches out to take his face with both hands. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just-- you’re cute, you’re very cute, but I forgot you’re new, so you don’t know. I’m gay, I’m sorry. You’re not really my _type_.”

 

Krem opens his mouth, but all that comes out is a soft, almost-squeak, so he tries again, turning his face to encourage her to let go. "Yes... that wouldn't work, you're right," he says finally, with a laugh, and glances up, embarrassed. "I understand," he adds, and he's not... upset... not very, at least.

 

"That could have gone worse," he admits with another laugh, putting his hands in his pockets, "It's probably odd to feel _validated_ after all that, but, ah... thank you. Really."

 

She clicks her tongue again and leans in to give him a gentle, chaste kiss on the mouth. “Think nothing of it. If you’d like, you can tell the rest of the boys I showed you my tits.” With that she steps around him and heads back up the hill to join the rest of the group, taking up her pistil and mortar by the fire.


	4. Chapter 4

After that evening, Krem has to put conscious effort into paying attention around the Bull again, but not because of any unfair work assignments Ward gives him– that's long past. No, his thoughts are purely on the Bull himself, though not... certainly not _purely_ purely.

 

It's confusing, to say the least. Krem had mostly paid attention to girls up until now, maybe partly because admitting attraction to men back home probably would have wound up with him giving into his mother's desires to marry him off to as wealthy a man she could manage, and it was hard enough denying her that with the fate of his family resting on his shoulders.

 

Now, though... does this make him gay? For that matter, what does liking women make him? Whatever the case may be, it's hard to ignore the nights when the need in his nether regions builds to where it's impossible to lie still, and his thoughts turn to his boss. He tries his best to sleep, but often gives up and tucks his face into the crook of his elbow with a pillow shoved between his thighs and ruts toward something he can never seem to reach, until he gives up with a frustrated sigh and falls asleep in a tent that smells shamefully of his own arousal.

 

But Krem is proud of the fact that those feelings never actually succeed in distracting him in training, especially for all the cold buckets of water he's poured over himself in the last several days to achieve that focus.

 

He's proud of more than that, too, for one of the first times he gets to come along with the Bull and his main team into a city for a mission that requires staying in an inn for once, Krem gets to see himself in a decently sized mirror for once as he dresses himself, and is more than a little pleased to see the results of all the training he's been doing. He's actually starting to look relatively broad in the shoulders, his taking on a meatiness he's never seen on himself before. He looks... manly, save his binder. It's immensely gratifying.

 

The morning after they get back to camp, Krem is woken up by a nightmare again. It leaves him shaking and sweating for a good while afterwards, but at least it's almost light out when he calms down, so it isn't too unreasonable to give up on sleep altogether. He heads out into the misty morning, to the clearing they've been using to train with the intention of working up a more useful sweat, when he sees the Bull, stretching his legs, it looks like.

 

"You're not usually up this early," he comments, blowing warm air into his hands, "But since we're both up, wanna spar?"

 

The Bull greets Krem with a nudge of his elbow, leaning down on his knees to inspect the pot where he’d started to boil his own cider. It’s not the same stuff that Stitches usually makes for him, but he’s not about to start chucking herbs and spices in willy-nilly, he’d be as likely to poison himself as anything else.

 

“Maybe not this morning,” he says lamely, balking at the thought of giving a reason why. His bad knee is a source of shame for him, his only real weakness is _cold weather_ of all things. Cold weather doesn’t even have him putting on a shirt, but it’ll rend his entire left leg apart with bone-stiffening aches from hip to toes. It doesn’t occur to him that he’s never actually turned Krem down for a sparring session before.

 

"Aw, really?" Krem asks, bouncing on his toes and beginning his usual set up stretches, and then tsks, shaking his head. "Ah, I see, you've seen how buff I've been getting. It's no problem! I understand! I'd be intimidated, too, if I saw me." He grins over at the Bull.

 

Bull barks a laugh, slapping his good knee. It’s against his better judgment, but he’s never been very good at telling Krem no, he has such a soft spot for the boy. “What’s this? Cheeky little Vint, aren’t you! I won’t stand for that kind of back-sass in my men, no sir. I’ll run your ass into the ground before I hear any of it!”

 

He stands up, hiding the limp in his leg by leaning into his axe. “Let’s do hand-to-hand today, I think I’d like to wring your skinny little arms with my bare hands.” he doesn’t say that he doubts he could manage the weight of his axe right now, and he hopes Krem doesn’t catch on.

 

Krem feels his face burning suddenly and squares his jaw for an instant. Kaffas, if the Bull could _avoid_ talking like that when he's this close to him, it would certainly make his life a little easier. Not playing fair, even when he doesn't realize he's not playing fair.

 

"Sounds good to me," he says, and walks a little further away from where the cider is brewing to move into a solid, but light footed stance. Almost as soon as they begin to move, testing one another's defenses, Krem senses something off, but with an opponent so large, it takes all his concentration to keep a step ahead of Bull's hands.

 

Besides, he knows the Iron Bull has upper hand in experience and tactics as well as brute strength– he probably has a trick up the sleeve he doesn’t have, which is all the more reason for Krem to stay present within the match.

 

Bull is lumbering a little harder than usual. The pain in his leg ought to be nursed, not exacerbated, but there’s something personally satisfying about sparring with Krem. He keeps trying to tell himself it’s platonic, but when ever is it, with him? Krem is a handsome, strapping, able-bodied and charming young man, and Bull would be lying if he said he didn’t give Krem some sideways glances sometimes.

 

He focuses his thoughts on Krem’s face instead of the pain in his thigh, especially once Krem shrugs off his jacket and his bare arms are visible. He’s distracted by the boy’s biceps long enough for Krem to land a punch to his gut which definitely knocks more wind out of him than it did several weeks ago.

 

He elbows Krem in the side, and the boy rolls with the blow better than he used to, swinging around the side to drive his knuckles into Bull’s right hip and ribs, before ducking a swinging blow from Bull’s forearm and dancing around back in front of him.

 

“This is fun for you, isn’t it, you little shit?” Bull laughs deeply as he lunges and Krem slides between his thighs to get a jab in behind him.

 

"Kickin' your ass is always going be my– favorite pastime," Krem replies with a grin, interrupted briefly as he has to twist away when his leg doesn't connect with the Bull's side like he was going for. It probably even true, there's nothing quite like the simplicity of sparring with the Bull, pulling Krem's thoughts away from things like tavern nightmares. Even the filthy thoughts about the Bull are at least put on hold while he's in the middle of trying to best him in a fight.

 

Krem smirks an instant before he goes after an opening, which is normally a bad move, but the hard meat of his thigh connects with the Bull this time, much harder than he imagined it would, and instead of spinning away like he expects from the unusually limber Qunari, the Bull loses his footing entirely.

 

"Wow, chief–" Krem begins, but the sound the Bull makes isn't right either. "Hey," he says, dropping his stance immediately, "Shit, are you alright, Bull?"

 

“Yeah, I’m--” Bull’s sentence is cut off abruptly when he takes a step back to regain his footing, and his boot slips on a wet rock. He falls, and he falls _hard_ , landing on his bad side and he hisses loudly, giving a bitten-off noise of pain. He doesn’t want Krem to see him like this, but it’s his own stupid fault for accepting the duel. “On second thought,” he wheezes, trying to right himself on the soggy earth. The mist around them seems to cling all the harder to his skin as the warmth of movement seeps out of him.

 

"Bull!"

 

Krem does his best to help the Bull back to where he'd been sitting before, but it's a slow process, his help barely better than a formality with their difference in sizes and weight. His eyes finally land on the Qunari's metal brace, something he'd noticed and dismissed long ago when the man never seemed to favor his leg in any way Krem could detect. Never, until now.

 

"You were resting, before," he voices his realization, placing his hands hesitantly over the Bull's, which squeezes his thigh and knee , "I-I shouldn't have pushed it, chief, I'm sorry. Fasta vass." It's not as horrific as the first time he'd gotten the Bull injured, but it only mixes with that guilt now.

 

Bull chuckles, but the sound is pained. “It’s not your fault. I could have said no. I just have a weakness for your puppy eyes. It’s just an old injury acting up, I’m fine. Stitches has this paste stuff she rubs into it sometimes that helps with the pain, it warms up, I don’t know if it’s magic or just plant shit, but it soothes the muscles sometimes. She once tried to explain how it works to me, but... eh, it doesn’t matter. She’s probably asleep, I can handle a little joint pain. I’m the Iron damn Bull, I laugh in the face of arthritis.”

 

Krem smiles half heartedly, and his eyes are still on the Iron Bull's leg. Stitches is undoubtedly still sleeping– anyone with sense still is, and the sun is only barely starting to make an appearance. Krem fetches a cup of cider for the Bull, and for himself, and then sits back down, pursing his lips in thought.

 

"Can I?" he asks, although he's already placed his hand, warmed from his cup, on the Bull's knee, "'Least I can do."

 

“Er,” Bull isn’t blushing, he definitely doesn’t blush. “Yeah, if you want. They’re your hands, if you wanna get Qunari germs all over ‘em be my guest.”

 

He unclasps the metal brace from his left shin and rucks his pants up, revealing an old, deep, and gnarly scar across his knee. It healed ages ago, leaving not a shred of pinkness behind at this point, but it’s puckered and grooved deep into the flesh, deep enough it looks like it might have shown bone once.

 

Bull laughs as Krem stares openly. “First dragon hunt ever. Turns out you can’t fight dragons alone, with a sword. Don’t worry, some day you’ll have a scar this cool, too.”

 

"I could think of a couple places I could go for one," Krem mutters, and grins when the Bull barks with laughter. It always feels like a victory, to startle a really loud one out of him. He squeezes his cup, sipping from it while he waits for the warmth to really transfer into his skin, and then sets it down.

 

He squeezes firmly, working his hands from knee to shin and then back up again, pausing to collect a bit more heat before returning to the task. When the Bull sighs audibly, Krem swallows, his belly twisting up in that irritating... pleasant way, and he does his best to ignore it.

 

"Does that help, any?" he asks after a while, softer than he meant.

 

“Mh,” Bull can’t help but moan. Krem’s hands are small, and they’re just starting to form some real deep-set callouses that even those in the military don’t receive when they’re not working every single day, but they’re certainly getting the job done. He rests back on his hands, forcing himself not to think about Krem’s hands. He’s faced with the entirely brand new dilemma of shame when it comes to matters of sexuality, and he doesn’t like it at all. The last thing he wants to do is scare the boy away. He realizes he’s been silent and finally tips his head down to look at Krem with a nod.

 

His eyes rove over the boy’s face, youthful and beautiful in that way only young boys are blessed with, over his broad shoulders and solid arms, getting more solid every day, and he sighs out through his nose.

 

“You really _are_ getting more muscular,” he says, his voice a low rumble as he pets a massive hand down Krem’s bicep.

 

Krem's hands still for just a moment when the Bull's hand comes down to rest on his arm, his cheeks darkening with a blush. His thoughts return, unbidden, to what he had seen of Bull a couple weeks ago, the way he'd spoken to the noble's son as he thrust against him.

 

It was similar to the low, gravely voice he's using now, is Krem's next thought, just as unbidden.

 

"I am," he says, resuming his massage, his eyes fixed on his own hands, "I... like it."

 

“I like it too,” Bull says, it’s the only natural thing that could have come out of his mouth. He maybe should have considered it before he said it, but it was too late now.

 

“Commander,” the voice of Stitches carries into the clearing and Bull clears his throat, sitting up straighter. She’s already holding the vial of the remedy she uses on the Bull’s knee on cold, wet mornings like this.

 

“Stitches, come sit by the fire,” Bull says hastily, eager for some distraction to put between himself and Krem. “Have you yet found a way to make it stink less?”

 

“I haven’t,” she laughs as she uncorks the vial and begins to work the sludge to warm in her palms, and Krem has to step aside to let her take over.

 

It's the way Krem jumps when Stitches makes her presence known, even more than what Bull actually said, that has his mind reeling, as if being startled that severely is the true confirmation that what they had just been saying, what they had just been doing was not _friendly_.

 

Krem makes an excuse for his departure he doesn't even remember once he's gone out of sight. He paces for a while, returns to his tent and sits on his cot with his hands between his clothed thighs and rocks for a while with his mouth closed tight, and then washes his hands and splashes his face with the water he'd already used that morning to wash the sweat off.

 

 _Maker_.


	5. Chapter 5

Krem isn't given a lot of time to pine or to start to doubt what he'd heard in the Bull's tone before work provides a distraction, and Krem similarly can't decide whether it's a welcome or unwelcome one.

 

The next time they really have a moment together occurs three days later, on the evening after the completion of a very successful mission. The Chargers are rowdy and merry with celebration, which Krem had participated in more and more, the more Ward realizes his busy work isn't getting the outcome he wants. He isn't much of a dancer though, so when Stitches and Carlisle and Rocky and– shockingly– Skinner are twirling around, Krem ducks down next to the Bull with his mug raised to his mouth, hoping not to get pulled in.

 

“Not one for dancing?” Bull flicks a wadded up cloth napkin at the ginger. When Krem shakes his head with a smile, the Bull laughs. “Nonsense, you’re one of the most coordinated fighters on the field. Fighting isn’t all that different from dancing, is it? I bet you’d be incredible.”

 

Realizing how red-colored his words have gone again, he clears his throat and sits up from where he’d been lounging back against the wall. “But, uhh, you know. It’s up to you.” it seems all of his practiced charm and class vanish in the face of Krem, and he’s not sure why. It would be easy to blame it on his worry about Krem’s trauma, but he’s not sure that’s all of it.

 

Krem makes his stomach feel ways he’s never felt before, like there’s spiders crawling around inside it. At first he thought it was some unrelated illness, but now he’s not as convinced. He finds himself afraid to _lose_ Krem, which is an entirely new feeling for him. He's lost friends before, and he's made friends knowing that if he lost them he would be sad, but... this isn't that. He doesn't know  _what_ this is. 

 

Sitting this close, the Bull's voice sends a shiver all down Krem's back that has him breathing in and shifting in his seat. Part of him just wishes he could go back to feeling normal, so he doesn't have to worry so much about not looking up at the Qunari while his face is obviously red, or squirming ineffectually in his bed nearly every night, when he knows at this point that he's already guaranteed to lose sleep over his dreams.

 

Another part of him simply wants to hear the Bull compliment him some more, in that rumbling voice.

 

"Except in fighting, steppin' on an opponent's toes is probably a good thing," he replies with a smirk, "What about you, chief? Much of a dancer?"

 

“With these big feet? Are you kidding?” Bull laughs, and then leans in. “I’d dance with you, though, if you wanted. Two wrongs probably cancel out and make a right, that seems like solid logic to me.”

 

Just as the Bull makes his case, the pair of bards switch to a song with a faster tempo and Krem snorts and stands up abruptly, impulsively, his chair scraping against the floor, and holds his hands out to the Bull. "And if your logic doesn't work out, we can just terrorize the others," he says with a lopsided smile, "Sounds perfect to me."

 

Bull’s heart is pounding in a simultaneously brand new and very familiar way. This sort of upstep in his heart’s percussion usually hits him in the chest when he’s about to lay with someone, that rush of adrenaline that accompanies arousal-- but this isn’t that. Doubtlessly, he’d love to sweep Krem up in his arms and kiss him breathless, but this gesture isn’t about that. He’s not sure what this is, but he knows he likes it.

 

He swings Krem against his body in the ring of dancers, and they’re cheered and cajoled by the other Chargers. They’re joined by some and abandoned by others just to clap to the tempo and watch the spectacle of their boss doing his best to dance when he moves largely like one might imagine a brick wall made of bears would move.

 

Bull finds he was right, it isn’t _too_ different from fighting. He and Krem have moved together on the battlefield more times than he can count at this point, and they’ve always had their own ineffable, flawless rhythm together. When he lifts Krem by the sides and swings him around, the expression of faultless joy on his face makes something between Bull’s neck and belly clench.

 

They dance until Krem inevitably runs into someone, because finding the ability to dance with Bull gracefully doesn't mean they're any good at accounting for the other dancers brave enough to stay within range of where the Bull is swinging him about, especially caught up in laughter as they are. Krem stumbles and apologizes, although he can't drop the grin on his face even if he tries.

 

"Best stop endangering others, chief," he says with a snicker, wrapping his arm around the Bull's to tug him back to the side of the tavern, "I blame you for that collision, by the way."

 

“Blame me? It’s the axe blade which kills the man, not the hands swinging it!” he laughs, catching Krem as he stumbles jelly-legged over a discarded tankard on the floor. His heart has found a permanent home up in his throat, it seems, as they sit heavily together, and Bull’s hand rests naturally on Krem’s knee. “You’re a better dancer than you thought, I think only a couple people died.”

 

It would be easy to blame his breathlessness on the dancing, but Krem's throat only starts to go tight when he's already sat down beside the Bull, the percussive beat of his heat seeming to double in speed when the man rests a large, warm hand on his leg. That heat shoots right up his leg, pooling in his stomach, as his mouth goes dry.

 

"Perhaps we ought to have a bard around for battle," he continues to joke around, even as his voice takes on a strange, breathy quality, "I'm willing to wager we'd take out a foe or two more while dancing."

 

Bull grins, his heart and cheeks warmed with the drink he’s had, and he reaches up to wipe a smudge of dirt off Krem’s cheeks. “I wager you might be right,” he says. He could be wrong, but it seems Krem is responding positively to these advances-- and for the first time he can ever recall, he’s actually fearing what will happen if he’s wrong. Rejection has always been a normal part of his life, and he’s never fretted over it, but he can’t help but feel if he loses Krem to this-- to himself-- he’ll do nothing but fret for Maker only knows how long.

 

“You were beautiful out there,” he glances over at where the others continue to dance. “Your face is suited for smiles.”

 

Krem dares to watch the Bull's face when his gaze flicks briefly over to the rest of the room, and breaths in just sharp enough to hear when the man's eye return back to him. He can think of ways to keep the banter going, he could feign offense and insist that a tough man like himself is made to sneer and scowl– that Bull is clearly mistaken if he thought he saw a smile out of Krem.

 

It would make the Bull laugh, probably, and more and more Krem finds that he lives to make the Bull laugh, but the feeling in his chest doesn't call for jesting. He hungers for... whatever the Bull has begun to project toward him lately.

 

"You weren't so bad, yourself," he murmurs instead.

 

When Bull sees the look in Krem’s eyes change, he knows he’s going in the right direction, and suddenly things feel comfortable again. He’s not afraid, now, afraid of losing this beautiful and terrifying feeling that hits his chest like the steel of a blade whenever he’s alone with Krem.

 

He gives a rumbling chuckle, and his hand moves to rest easily on Krem’s hip. He can’t help but note how large his hands are on Krem’s body. His hands have always been a source of either great pain or enormous pleasure for other people, and occasionally it will strike him how large they are compared to humans or elves or dwarves, but Krem seems especially small and fragile and worthy of kindness, so he doesn’t go any further. At least not for now.

 

“I’m going to make you dance for me more often,” he says, rubbing his thumb over Krem’s hip. “It’ll be part of your training. I like watching you move.”

 

Krem gets a laugh out of the Bull after all, but it resonates somewhere much lower in Krem's body than he usually feels it. There's no amount of modesty that can deflect from the toe-curling fact that the man desires Krem. He has never known the Bull to be coy about anything, and in the moment that he places his hand on Krem's hip, the young man feels an undeniable thrill.

 

Watching that hand as he listens to the Bull speak, Krem can picture the Bull touching him even more, can picture kissing him... remarkably, can even picture those hands removing his clothing.

 

This could be a reality, Krem thinks, but when he looks up to discover that the Bull has moved closer to Krem than he had predicted, his heart rate spikes instantly and he flinches back before he can even put a name to what he is feeling.

 

He doesn't _want_ to react like this, but the Bull is already moving his hand away, and as soon as Krem stammers out, "I'm sorry," they can both see that nothing else can take place. Not tonight.

 

" _Kaffas_ , I'm sorry," Krem repeats himself, frustrated, bewildered, and worse, still trembling.

 

Just like that, it was as if Krem had dumped a bucket of freezing ocean water over Bull’s head. “Shit,” he mutters, sitting back upright, and then moving to his feet. “Shit, shit, shit.”

 

He tries to say something else-- anything else, anything of substance, anything that resembled an apology or an explanation or even just a _sentence_. His heart has dropped out of his throat and he thinks it hovers somewhere around the center of the Earth now as he turns on his heel and takes himself out of the tavern as quickly as he can.

 

It’s a tree that feels his wrath first, in the form of a punch that both dislocates a knuckle and leaves a dent in the bark. His breath forms clouds in the cold air as he paces with a nervous energy he has never before felt after a rejection. It should come natural to him, it always has. Not everybody is interested in him, that’s a fact of life, and it’s never bothered him before, it’s never bothered him until _exactly now_.

 

Maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s dying Maybe he’s going mad. Maybe someone put a spell on him. He has to find someone to talk to about this, as quickly as he can, it’s going to be the death of him.

 

Not that anything in the last several seconds was planned, but regardless Krem did not expect the Bull to tear out of the tavern as a result. No one else did either, as it happens, and Krem orders another drink for himself just to have something to do under the uncomfortable weight of the rest of the chargers' eyes on him.

 

He turns around to face the wall as he nurses the mead, and tries to make himself as unapproachable as possible, but when Stitches takes a seat next to him anyways, he isn't as upset by it as he thought he would be. He doesn't give her a lot of context to work with when he speaks, but somehow he doubts she'll need it.

 

"I'm a coward," he hisses, "It's been nearly a bloody _year_ , and it's _Bull_ – there was no reason to... to..." He sets down his tankard to put his face in his hands.

 

She reaches out and tenderly places a hand on his shoulder. “There’s no time limit on this sort of thing,” she tells him gently. “It’s probably gonna affect you the rest of your life. It would even if you didn’t have extra sex problems goin’ on in your body addin’ to the problem. It’ll be alright. Bull won’t hold it against you. I’m sure the only reason he left at all’s because he’s scared to hurt you.”

 

Krem is sick of it. He's sick of never quite getting a full night's sleep, sick of worrying that he'll wake someone up if he shares a room or a tent, sick of sweating through his clothes. And he's already sick of a bunch of dead men getting in the way of what he wants, after the first time of being truly confronted with it.

 

"I don't want him simply to not hold a grudge, I want–" Krem clears his throat, turning red. Stitches probably has a good idea of what he wants without him carrying on about it. "It's just, he looked at me like he'd broken something," he says, "He hasn't. I just... Need to figure out how to prove that."

 

Krem sighs, shrugs, takes a drink, and turns back around to face the rest of the tavern.

 

“Maybe you should make a move back, then,” Stitches suggests. “There’s no way he’s going to try again, at this rate. I’ve never seen him so frightened to fuck up before, I think he’s in love. He might not even know it. Qunari are funny about love.”

 

Qunari don't have a monopoly on being funny about love, of course, only more of a organized tendency toward it. Krem bristles at the word, himself, choking on his drink. "You think so?" he asks, wide eyed, "Fasta vass."

 

Stitches laughs and ruffles his hair lovingly until the 'Vint squawks with irritation, and leaves him to his pondering. She can nudge him in the right direction, but after catching the look on the Bull's face as he stomped by, she has a feeling she'll be needed elsewhere.

 

Her suspicions are confirmed when she returns to camp and finds the Qunari pacing with a set of swollen, ugly looking knuckles.

 

"You do know the sides of buildings don't hit back, right, Commander?" she asks, "There's little point in challenging them."

 

“Trees, I was hitting trees,” he corrects defensively. “Trees sometimes hit back, remember?”

 

The elf raises her hands, accepting the point. "Better safe than sorry, you're right... come along, I didn't bring salves to the tavern." She snaps his knuckle back into place under the light of a candle with efficient, and therefore merciful force, and is similarly efficient with her words, as she applies some of the same salve she uses on his leg on his bruised hand now.

 

"We've all seen you two sniffing around each other for the better part of two weeks now... I've never seen you retreat like that. Any hint as to what's rattling around in your head, Boss?"

 

The Bull was afraid she’d bring it up, it was the only reason anybody would follow him outside. He’d hoped if he looked bristly enough, nobody would approach him, but Stitches has always been too smart for him, and too smart for the Chargers-- she was a blessing as far as he was concerned, even when brutalizing his knuckles.

 

“I have no idea,” he admits. “I feel sick. I think I’ve come down with something. A curse, maybe. I feel ill whenever I’m around that boy, but if that weren’t bad enough, it’s some kind of illness that feels _good_ and _bad_ at the same time. I’ve heard a lot of ‘no’ in my life, and I’m used to it. But when Krem says no it _hurts_. He might have stabbed me, actually, I didn’t check for blood.”

 

Stitches reaches around to pat the Bull on the back. It takes a bit of reaching. "Well, I spoke to him," she says, "Didn't sound like he wanted it to be a 'no'. You experience something like he did, it gunks things up, surely you know that. As for you... 'fraid to say your illness hasn't got a reliable cure. You're in love, big guy– it's probably contagious, too, by the looks of the kid."

 

“In love!?” the Bull repeats, as if scandalized. “The nerve, I should hang you by your toes. Qunari don’t... I mean, we can’t. Not like that. That’s what we’re told. It’s not an option, we’re not even capable of... _being in love,_ ” he whispers it as though he’s in high court spreading heresy.

 

The elf snorts with laughter. "You know I don't like speakin' critical of the Qun anymore than you like proselytizing, but that's a bunch of dung. Maybe love isn't useful under the Qun. Maybe you've got the right idea avoiding it entirely– Maker knows it causes a lot of mess– but I haven't known you Qunari to be incapable of anything the rest of us are." Stitches sighs and finishes wrapping the Bull's hand. "Look, all I know is you just gave me a spot on description of someone arse over tit in love. Do what you will with it... and maybe accept you might have some learning to do about your own capabilities."

 

The Bull sits alone for quite some time. He spends the rest of the evening alone, to his team’s surprise. He’s never alone when there’s flirting to be done and drink to be had and festivities to enjoy. Even when they return to make camp, he stands alone near the top of the hill, wrapped up in his thoughts. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is sexual content in this chapter, and Krem has some issues, so be warned

Bull's troubled thoughts linger for days.

 

Every time he sees Krem in the days that pass, he feels the familiar clenching in his chest. His heart, he wonders. Humans have a funny way of assuming that it’s the epicenter of love. Qunari have only ever treated it as the most dangerous part of the body, where all lifeblood flows. If the heart is damaged, the rest of the body cannot survive. A man can even survive an arrow in his eye if it doesn’t hit the right part of his head, but the heart is always the eternal betrayer of the body.

 

Perhaps that’s why it’s where love comes from. Love has started wars, it has ended lives, it’s the center of both comedies and tragedies. Qunari have always been blissfully cut off from all the nonsense, but Bull is beginning to think that might not have been the best move after all. The happiest he’s been in a long time is spending time with Krem, and if that’s what love is, he wants to feel it every day for the rest of his life.

 

He doesn’t blame the boy for avoiding him. He’s avoiding Krem in equal parts as he tries to sort through all the questions in his head. He hasn’t been this introspective in years-- decades, possibly. It’s exhausting, asking so many questions about himself, to himself, especially when he doesn’t even have the answers, and he can’t rightfully torture or intimidate information out of himself.

 

By day two, Krem purposefully walks up near Ward just so he'll get that look on his face and assign him something tedious to do. He hates not talking to the Bull, but he can't really bring himself to approach him either, so for days he's left with a lot of frustration and nervous energy and no lasting way to relieve it.

 

It would be easier if the Bull seemed remotely willing to be around him. Krem finds himself grumbling about the conversation he had with Stitches– it shows what she knows, assuring him that the Bull wouldn't hold a grudge– the Qunari could hate Krem now, for all he knows.

 

Relief finally comes when the Chargers get word of a dragon terrorizing some farmlands nearby. It's exactly the sort of job to pull the boss out of his funk, and when the boss is energized and eager for battle, the Chargers follow suit. Even Krem gets swept up in the fervor. No matter what is going on, Krem knows how to be a damn good soldier.

 

The spring is back in Bull’s step. At last he has a real reason not to think about Krem for the first time in days. Any other reason he could come up with just felt disrespectful. But a dragon-- well, there’s no way around dragons. Dragons demand attention and priority. He’ll just have to keep being sad later, oh well.

 

The dragon itself is huge and black and mean, and everything that the Bull has ever dreamed of. His axe is swift and his mind is peacefully blank as he fights the fire breathing monster. He might as well be listening to classical music as he fights, he’s so at peace. And when he cleaves the monster’s head off after it’s dead to stuff it as a trophy, the look of pride in his Charger’s faces and the gratitude on those of the villagers is incredibly satisfying.

 

A huge feast is thrown in honor of the Chargers in the village square that evening, where everybody eats their fill and talks and laughs. The Bull is so swept up in talking about the dragon, he completely forgets about giving Krem his space and sits down right beside him, exalting exaggerated tales of the events as though he weren’t surrounded by people who were actually there.

 

Krem had known he missed the Bull's presence the past week, but he realized as the Qunari plops down next to him, glowing with post-battle excitement and booming with laughter that instantly fills Krem with content just from his proximity, that he'd had no idea just how much he was affected by the absence.

 

At once, he decides that things won't be stilted between them any longer– Krem simply won't allow it to happen. He just helped kill his first bloody _dragon_ , after all!

 

"And then you gaze into its ancient eyes and gleaned everything it had to offer before driving an axe into it's heart, yes, yes," Krem interjected with a laugh.

 

“It’s heart?” Bull thunders a laugh. “Are you kidding? There’s much too much armor scales down there, you can’t drive shit into its heart. I smackered the giant lizard in the neck!”

 

“And how did that make you _feel?”_ Skinner enunciates dramatically.

 

“Randy as fuck!” Bull’s laughter carries all throughout the village it seems, it’s so all-encompassing and warm. “You know what dragon hunting does to me, it’s the strongest aphrodisiac there is! The adrenaline, the thrill, the sex appeal of a dragon itself-- there’s nothing in the world more enticing.”

 

“You’d fuck the _dragon_ if you could,” Stitches throws a bun at him.

 

He catches it and takes a bite, and laughs, pointing at her, “You’re absolutely right.”

 

Someone shouts, "Please, tell us more about your dragon fetish, Bull! Inquiring minds must know!" to a conflicting chorus of boos and cheers that has Krem laughing so hard he nearly tipped his chair clear over– would have, if the Bull hadn't slammed a hand down on the back of it with a "Whoa, lad!" before going straight back to describing his feeling on the matter in raunchy detail.

 

The shock of being kept upright combined with the shock of the Bull actually _speaking_ to Krem is enough to render the young man quiet for a while, his heart beating out of his chest. Somehow, ridiculously, as Krem drinks and watches his boss carry on, he feels himself getting worked up like he hasn't been since the night he'd ruined everything. He can't tear his eyes away, attuned completely to the growl in the Qunari's voice, the way his nostrils flare, even past the point that much of the Chargers have gone back to their own celebrating.

 

Stitches said to make a move. Krem repeats the instruction over and over his head as a group of bards begin a well known song about slaying dragons and the Bull howls with delighted laughter, swinging an arm around Krem's shoulders and cajoling everyone into singing along.

 

Krem trails off before long, eyes fixed on the Bull, and places a hand on his thigh.

 

Bull’s voice comes abruptly to a halt and his chin snaps down so fast he almost overturns a passing maid’s tray with his horns. He felt right, there is definitely a hand on his thigh-- higher than could ever be deemed appropriate-- and his eyes follow the arm up to Krem’s face, where he stares in pure, unadorned shock.

 

“You-- your--” he clears his throat. “Have you misplaced your hand or is that intentional?”

 

Some patron god of getting some action must be looking favorably upon Krem right now, because he doesn't stutter or anything. "Naw, chief," he says, holding the Bull's gaze even as his face goes red, and only barely from drink, "I think... we've got things to say." Maybe not that much to say, really, but whatever will get them somewhere more private works for Krem.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Bull’s voice is a growl, and he doesn’t even hesitate to pick Krem up right out of his seat and carry him off. “Krem and I are off to have civil words with one another, don’t wait up!” he calls back to his company, who cheers in his wake as he carries the boy out of range of any prying eyes and into the darkness of the evening. He could have taken him to the rooms the townspeople have provided for the Chargers for the night, but if this is going where he thinks (hopes) it is, he’d rather not be in earshot.

 

He carries Krem right into a barn and lights a single oil lamp, which flickers in the black night air. Horses stir around them in their stables, but otherwise they are completely alone. Bull sets Krem down on a barrel and looms out over him, cupping his face with both hands and rubbing his thumbs across the boy’s cheekbones.

 

“Say your things,” he says, his voice a little breathless. “I want to hear them.”

 

It feels different already, Krem thinks even as he groans and buries his face as the Bull carries him off, because it feels like all part of the game to act like it doesn't set his heart racing for Bull to announce their intentions to the world. They aren't in a tavern, for one, and for two, probably the more important part, Krem set this in motion.

 

He turns his face into the Bull's touch, his pupils blown wide in response to the raggedness of the Bull's voice. "I want you," he says, wetting his lips, " _Kaffas_ , I've wanted you..." He's not sure what capacity he even wants him, but it feels like a step in the right direction to even get this far.

 

“I want you too,” the Bull admits, but as much as he wants to kiss him, he doesn’t bend down yet. Unfamiliar with the graces and social particulars of courting and romance, he blurts out without shame, “I love you. It took me a while to figure out what it was that made me feel sick and happy at the same time around you. For a while I thought you were a mage who put a spell on me. I didn’t know I could love, but I’m glad that I love _you_.”

 

"I love you too," Krem gasps back, and from the shocked look on his face, and the laugh that follows, it isn't even necessary to add what he says next, but he does all the same, "That's... not where I was planning for this to go, exactly... Maker, it's true though... i-it's true, I love you, Bull."

 

Bull’s cheeks ache as he grins triumphantly and he bends down to kiss Krem. It’s not as fierce or hot or deep as he would like, but there will be time. They have all the time in the world. Krem leans into the kiss and whimpers and it just about breaks the Bull’s heart when he pulls away.

 

“What do you want me to do to you right now?” Bull asks plainly. “You need to let me know because if I don’t know where your limits lie I’ll accidentally cross them before you can blink an eye.”

 

Krem is still dazed from the kiss, and he wasn't prepared for such a broad question. It's probably magnificently foolish to think he could get through even a minute with the Bull before it's clear he's never done more than kissing, and not much of that either, but he was still hoping the Bull would just... lead on.

 

"Maybe, ah... just, uh... I'd like to be _touched_ , it's just..." Krem averts his eyes, sighing in distress, "Not... I'm afraid to say I'm not especially well versed in this stuff, chief..." That's one way to put it. Maker, what made Krem think the Bull would want to bother with a virgin? He's not at all confident like the folks he's seen the Bull flirting with– fasta vass he doesn't know _anything_.

 

“Alright,” Bull rubs his nose and cheek against Krem’s jaw and neck, breathing in the scent of his sweat and musk. “Then we’re going to need a watchword. Something that you can say that will make me stop everything I’m doing immediately, no matter what. The word is katoh, can you remember that?”

 

Krem drapes his arms over the Bull's shoulders, breathing out unsteadily. He's nervous, he's definitely nervous, but there's no sick feeling inside of him, no anxiety freezing up his limbs.

 

"Never heard of anyone using a watchword before... but I can remember that," he says with a nod, and repeats, "Katoh is the word."

 

Bull lifts Krem up off the barrel and holds him against his chest. Krem has to wrap his legs around Bull’s waist, and he does so willingly and with great strength with the lantern in one hand as Bull carries him effortlessly up a ladder into the loft, where all the oldest, softest hay lays. He lays Krem down on the hay and admires how truly small he is beneath him.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” he rumbles and leans down to kiss him again, a little deeper this time, before breaking the kiss and nosing down Krem’s neck with echoing kisses. “If you’re ever unable to speak, tapping me or the ground three times will get my attention.”

 

His prick is already hardening between his thighs, but he’s not about to impose that on Krem, who seems just barely willing to be touched. His arms wrap around the Bull’s neck and his voice is the sweetest music Bull has ever heard as he smoothes his hands down his sides to grip his hips. “May I undress you?” he asks, kissing Krem’s lower lip and chin.

 

Words like "beautiful" make Krem twitch sometimes, harkening back to the days of standing still while his mother hemmed a dress on him. He doesn't think of that now, when the Bull calls him that, this word taking on something much closer to its intended meaning when said in his low, appreciative rumble.

 

Already, Krem feels as if he might burst in the best way possible, at the slightest stroke of the Bull's hands. He's caught between wanting the Bull to go on stroking him like this for hours, and wanting more.

 

"Yes," he sighs, shivering as the Bull bares his stomach to the open air, and then placing his hands atop the Qunari's head, "Only... maybe leave my binder on?" There's enough complication between his legs, he's not sure he wants to bring even more unruly flesh into the equation.

 

“Of course,” Bull says. He would have even if Krem didn’t ask him to, but there’s no point gloating. It’s not a victory to act pious about Krem’s own body insecurities, which go so far beyond that of most people’s. He kneels up to remove his belt so its massive buckle doesn’t press against Krem as he bears back down on him for another kiss, undoing the boy’s belt and breeches so he can slide them down off his legs. He leaves his smalls on for now, figuring he’ll start touching over them until he gets comfortable with that.

 

Pulling Krem’s tunic off over his head, and he whistles in appreciation. He drags his hand down the boy’s binder and over his belly. “Damn,” he whispers, his thumbs tracing the grooves of his abdominal muscles. “Damn, you look good. You look _edible_.”

 

Krem raises his arms, rubs his face against his own bicep, his abs twitching between the Bull's calloused thumbs. It feels wonderful to be touched like this, and the genuine appreciation of the larger man's words sets off a surge of pride in Krem's chest like one of Rocky's explosives. He's worked hard for the muscles he's accumulated, for the definition in his middle, for the sense of control it gives him.

 

He squirms between the Bull's touch, a familiar heat building in his belly, and he slides his hands over the Bull's, tracing the tendons running up his forearms. "Not so bad yourself, chief," he murmurs what's becoming an automatic reply.

 

Bull gives a suffering sort of laugh. “You haven’t seen me with my pants off yet,” he says, and it isn’t a compliment. It’s not that he’s particularly self conscious, but he knows not everybody is into the whole potbelly look. Krem is such a young and devastatingly handsome man, all tight muscles and ropey limbs and caramel flawless and freckled skin, he’s a perfect specimen of masculine beauty.

 

The Qunari focuses his hands and mouth for the time being on Krem’s belly. It such a delightful plane of muscle, to touch and taste and feel. He wants Krem so badly he can hardly breathe, but he’s going to take his time. Every time Krem stiffens, he pulls back and waits for his nod of approval to keep going.

 

Gently, he slides his hands up Krem’s thighs, but stops before his fingers reach the hems of the legs of his smalls. “Are you doing okay?” he asks Krem, who looks a little tense and anxious under him. “Talk to me.”

 

Everything the Bull has done to him so far feels so much better than touching himself ever has, and all he's doing is stroking his belly and thighs, keeping obvious watch of what he's comfortable with. Krem aches between his legs, that much is undeniable, but when those hands actually reach his smalls, his breath hitches and the Bull urges him to tell him what he's feeling.

 

Krem doesn't even know the answer to that. He lays his hands on the Bull's, not pushing him away, nor urging him on.

 

"Even before they..." Krem opens his eyes, staring up at the lamp. He wants to describe that experience like he wants a couple arrows in the face, but getting to the meat of the matter is barely any easier. "I like what you're doing, chief– _Maker_ I like it, but I... I don't think it's fair to continue– I don't think I can give you what you're used to."

 

Bull looks up from where he’d been nuzzling the inside of Krem’s knee. “What I’m used to? How do you know what I’m used to? I’m the one with a dragon fetish, remember?” he jokes, but the sad smile on Krem’s face has him dropping the pretenses of humor. “Do you mean penetration? I wasn’t planning on doing that. Even if you _did_ want it, you’re ah... a small lad, you’d need some _training_ to take what I have to offer. But I wasn’t planning on imposing my _axe_ on you right now anyway.”

 

"Oh," Krem says in a small voice, his face going red as he processes what he's been told, but he settles back against the hay again, unsure of when he'd started to get up. "Your 'axe'," he repeats after a moment, his smile less strained now, and he nods, adding, "You can... keep going, then." He can feel his heart trying to punch right out of his chest at the thought of the Bull touching him further, but in what he's pretty sure is a good way.

 

Bull moves cautiously, taking his time, letting every part of Krem’s body adjust to the idea of being touched. He touches his thighs over his smalls, and then massages his hands into the muscles there, kissing and sucking marks into his belly as he inches his hands up higher, a little at a time. At one point Krem’s hands leave the hay and curl loosely over Bull’s horns, probably to feel grounded, he imagines.

 

“I’m going to touch you with my fingers now, through the cloth. Is that okay?” he glances up at Krem and waits as the boy breathes deeply for a few seconds, and then presses his lips together in a firm line and nods. “Remember the watchword,” he tells him, and then slides his hand up to where Krem’s thighs meet.

 

He’s greeted by a pool of already forming wetness, and his fingers give a slick squelching sound as he grinds two fingertips into a general approximation of where Krem’s clit is. His scent is sweet acid, a masculine mixture of scent and pure arousal that makes Bull’s mouth water, but he focuses the touching to just gentle pressure of his fingers while Krem’s thighs shake.

 

“Keep talking to me,” Bull commands gently when it looks like Krem is trying to hold something in. “I want to hear everything you’re thinking, everything you need.”

 

"Fasta _vass_ , oh–"

 

The Bull was right in thinking he was holding something in, but it was his breath, as it turns out, rather than some additional secret insecurity. Already, the Bull's movements against his tender spots feels more purposeful than Krem has ever been able to achieve.

 

It's a little too intense, even as soft as the Qunari is going, not that Krem can really blame him– any time he's tried to touch himself directly, he was too sensitive to bear it, which was why he always resorted to pillow in the first place. Krem shies away from the touch, but catches the Bull's wrist when he predictably begins to pull away, surprising them both.

 

"It's good, it's just," he begins, his eyes fluttering closed in concentration as he guides the Bull to touch him a tiny bit higher and less direct, drawing another shuddering sigh out of him at the glorious difference it makes, "B-better..."

 

Bull chuckles, utterly charmed by Krem’s oversensitivity, and lovingly massages his fingers into his clitoral hood through the fabric instead of the little bead itself. Krem’s thighs tremble and his hips jerk down as unfamiliar jolts of pleasure course down his legs and into his belly.

 

“Have you touched yourself before, Krem?” he asks in his rumbling bass. He can picture the man in his tent, hands crammed down his pants, biting a pillow as he hastily endeavors to get himself off before getting caught.

 

Krem can't keep still for the life of him, each time he tries, it's mere moment before the Bull tickles at him in one direction or the other and his pelvis jerks up without his control. He forces his mouth shut after a whine escapes him in a higher pitch than he would ever make on purpose, puffing air out sharply through his nose instead.

 

"N– ot like this," he answers belatedly, "It's never... been like this before..."

 

He feels too hot, but his skin has broken out in goosebumps. The urgency inside of him is alarming, but he wouldn't try to slow things down again even if he could– he wants _more_.

 

“You don’t have to be quiet,” Bull tells him, tonguing his navel and breathing out hot across his lower belly. “We’re all alone out here, and I want to _hear_ you.”

 

He emphasizes his words with a firm pinch and then a roll to Krem’s clit, and he earns a wail that the man can’t quite swallow down. A horse gives a quiet whinny in response, and Bull grins like a fool. “Gorgeous,” he rumbles, and leans down to nudge his nose against the soaked cloth without going any further than that. His horns rest against the tops of Krem’s thighs, a weighty and rough anchor against his skin as he licks and kisses his inner thighs.

 

“Still good?” he checks in, slowing down each time Krem’s muscles tense up, unable to tell the difference between pleasure and fear with his face smashed between his legs.

 

"That's– isn't that filthy?" Krem's heard jokes and stories– told them himself when he's trying to look tough, but to actually put one's mouth _there?_ Krem hasn't even bathed since before the fight with the dragon.

 

All the same, the concept of having the Bull's lips a little to the right of where he's kissing Krem now, unfathomable and arousing all at the same time, is like a stab to the groin, as close to painful in its intensity as it can be while still being pleasant. He feels the Bull's hot breath above where he is already hot and humid, and it's driving him mad already.

 

The Bull chuckles, blowing hot air out against the wet fabric, and Krem’s sex behind. “I’m planning to kiss it, not plant flowers in it,” he says, glancing up. “But, I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

 

"Alright," Krem murmurs, teeth flashing in a smile that turns embarrassed when the Bull lifts his face up a little more, looking at him expectantly. "Yes, I want you to," he huffs, and wraps his hands around the Qunari's horns once more.

 

“Over the clothes, or would you like me to take them off first?” the Bull smirks up at Krem with a devious expression.

 

" _Bull_ ," Krem groans with a laugh, prodding the pads of his fingers against the Bull's cheek to show how he feels about getting teased with so many questions. He has to fight to actually get the words out, squirming and looking away. "Kaffas... smalls off."

 

Bull is tender and gentle as he pulls off Krem’s underthings. He’s not surprised when his thighs snap together, and for the time being, he allows them. He rubs massive hands up and down the tops of his thighs and bends down to kiss down his rib cage, down over his belly, and gradually as Krem’s tense and nervous muscles relax, his thighs drop naturally open.

 

The Qunari’s sense of smell is immediately overwhelmed by the heady, sharp aroma of Krem’s arousal, and it drive him absolutely wild. He growls and sits back just to look at him from top to bottom. The tendons in his neck sticking out, his belly heaving, his thighs trembling, and the dark curls between his legs drenched and sticking together with his own fluids.

 

“Fuck me, you’re gorgeous,” he growls, and dives in, spreading Krem’s labia with two fingers so he can lick that first slick, sweet stripe up his sex, and he finishes it off by tucking the tip of his tongue into his hood.

 

Thanks to the rigorous training the Bull requires, Krem has honestly felt better about his body than he can ever remember feeling, but it doesn't mean he doesn't have days of feeling awkward and misshapen. The Bull looks at him like there's not a flaw on him, his eyes tracing over him for almost a moment too long, before he ducks his head and the creeping discomfort Krem was starting to feels falls away immediately, into white hot sensation.

 

"Ahh!" he shouts in the aftermath of that first swipe of his tongue, his body trembling more than ever. The Bull gives him just long enough for the pleasure to finish reverberating through his belly and thighs before he licks him again, and again, like he _tastes_ good. " _Maker_ ," he gasps with a trembling voice, "Oh, chief..."

 

“Don’t say Maker,” the Bull growls, his other hand dipped down between his legs to palm at himself. “The Maker isn’t doing this to you, I am. Say _my_ name.”

 

He presses in again, his nose soaked and buried in Krem’s curls as he licks and sucks him. He drags the broad flat of his tongue up the length him and then makes quick, stabbing licks at his clit and hole, not penetrating, but giving him the sensation that it could happen, letting him get used to the idea.

 

“Do you want my tongue in you or no?” the Bull asks as he kisses and sucks at Krem’s clit, trapping the hood very lightly in his teeth and giving it the lightest of nips before pulling gently and then soothing the spot with flicks of his tongue.

 

Krem doesn't know if he wants to feel Bull there, doesn't know if it will complicate things, certainly doesn't want to waste any time pondering about it _now_ , when what the Bull is doing feels fantastic as it is, so he shakes his head. And then he gasps "not now" when he gets enough of his senses back for a moment to realize that the Bull isn't watching his face at the moment.

 

The man rolls with Krem's instruction as easily as he always has, when it comes to his comfort, which in this case includes slurping him up some more until Krem's thighs are squeezing against the sides of his head and he feels like he's shaking apart.

 

There is something building, something strange and bright in Krem's groin that he can't put a name to, and as it draws closer his only horrified guess is that he is about to _piss_ , of all things.

 

"MmmmBull, _fuck_ , Bull– _k-katoh!"_

 

Bull’s eyes widen and his head snaps back so fast, the rough texture of his horns that Krem had been grabbing onto scrapes his palms. “What’s wrong, what happened? Did I hurt you?” he immediately relocates beside Krem to resolve any fears he has that could be centered on Bull being between his legs.

 

Krem buries his face in his hands, his chest heaving, but he barely wastes a moment before insisting, "It wasn't you, it wasn't you!" He can still feel that strange pressure, that tingling sensation, but it's receding to something closer to the ache that he's used to.

 

"I thought– kaffas, I don't want to say it," he groans, mortified, and quietly admits, "I thought I was about to piss."

 

Bull gives a quiet laugh and shakes his head. “I think you were about to come,” he corrects. “Have you... you’ve never come, before, have you Krem?”

 

Krem finally drops his hands, the muscles in his legs relaxing but not opening, and shakes his head. Frankly, he didn't know people with his parts _could_. Sure, he'd felt some pleasure before, not anywhere close to what he'd been feeling up until a moment ago, but some amount... but it's not like he can have one off like a regular man might. Right?

 

When he looks up at the Bull, the man is smiling at Krem fondly, hungrily.

 

"That's... really what that was?" As if the Bull would play a trick on him, but still.

 

Bull nods his head. “I mean, if you wanna have a quick piss off the edge of the balcony if you really think that’s what it was, be my guest. But I’d be willing to bet you were about to come. It can feel like that, if you don’t know what it’s like, I’ve been told that before by past partners. Do you want to come? I can keep going. If you want to stop here, I don’t have a problem with that. I might need to rub one off before I’m fit to cuddle, though.”

 

Now that he's settled down a little, his bladder feels fine, making him feel even more foolish, but at least the Bull has heard that before... Krem shakes his head, laying hands on the Bull's arm. "I want to keep going... I want to try, chief," he says.

 

And maybe after, he'd like see– and perhaps get a little involved– in the Bull rubbing one out, but Krem doesn't say that yet. One thing at a time.

 

“With my mouth or fingers?” Bull offers, leaning in to kiss and suck at Krem’s neck with full intent to leave a mark where people will see it, provided Krem doesn’t stop him. He slips his fingers down into the wet folds, petting and stroking gently, not urgently, to give Krem an idea of what he’d be capable of.

 

"Hah... This is good," he murmurs, although it's hardly necessary to say when Krem is already leaning into the Bull's touch and tilting his chin up, bearing himself to his clever fingers and warm mouth. He rocks his hips against the Qunari's large hand, his eyebrows knitted up in concentration as the Bull stirs him up, collects his slickness and returning to a rhythm that Krem can feel is ratcheting up the need inside him in a steady climb.

 

Bull’s fingers are swift and talented. He turns Krem on his side so he can nudge right up behind him (bearing the full brunt of his clothed cock against Krem’s backside) so he has easy access between his legs. With one knee folded back over Bull’s legs, and Bull’s arm tucked under his head, he strokes in steady, firm circles around Krem’s clit, in motions of five or six circles, and then dips down between his folds again, to gather more moisture, before repeating the action.

 

“Do you feel good, Krem?” he rumbles in his ear as he nibbles up his neck to the lobe. He can feel Krem’s belly tensing and jerking as his orgasm builds like the swelling tide. “Do you feel like you’re going to come? I’d love to hear you say it. I’d love to hear you say, _I’m going to come, Bull.”_

 

Krem can't keep quiet anymore, every exhale ending in a moan or desperate whine. With the Bull holding him the way he is, Krem doesn't have as much space to squirm, leaving him no way to squirm away this time from the overwhelming strange feeling forming within him. Each time the Bull slides his fingers further down Krem's slit, it's a brief interruption in his building ache, but it only makes the need more urgent.

 

" _Bull_ ," he gasps, giving the Qunari's shoulder a distracted shove with a short laugh. He's not sure how the Bull expects him to say something so blatantly silly, but his laughter is cut off with another surprised little gasp, because the Bull's fingers aren't pausing any more, and he hears him growl in response to the way every muscle in Krem's body is tensing up. "I can't– I'm– _Bull_ ," Krem says, his voice tight, and it feels all at once like his spine is melting, like all of that sweet tension inside him releases into something even sweeter. He knows, distantly, that he's making all manner of stupid noises now, but he doesn't care, because he's certain he's never felt this good before. He grinds against the Bull's hand, burying his face in his arms, until the pulsing inside of him slows down and his parts begin to sting with more oversensitivity than he's ever felt before.

 

"Stop, stop, _fasta vass,_ " Krem whines, pushing the Bull's hand away, but once he has he collapses into exhausted laughter. "Oh, _Maker_ , that was... that was..."

 

“That was not at all what I asked you to say,” Bull finishes his sentence, teasing and rumbling in both satisfaction at bringing Krem off, and intense, burning arousal. “You’re usually so good at following orders, you know I don’t take kindly to insubordination,” he noses lazily along Krem’s neck, kissing and sucking his sweat-licked skin.

 

"Ah, bite me, chief," Krem replies with a snort, and a yelp of laughter when the Bull predictably follows Krem's directions. He'll have marks all over his neck at this rate, but he can't think up any reasons to be upset about that at the moment, as he basks in the glow of his orgasm.

 

"I've been missin' out," he concludes with a contented sigh, but it is long before he shifts against the Bull. "I can feel yours against me," he says in a near whisper, "Could I see?"

 

Bull’s eyes widen. He’s honestly been expecting that Krem wouldn’t want to go anywhere near the thought of a prick right now. “Yeah?” he glances down at his own package as Krem rolls over to face him. “You really want to?” When Krem nods his head, Bull shrugs a shoulder. “Sure, If you want. You know the watchword applies to this, too, even if you aren’t touching me, if you get too uncomfortable, I can roll over at any point.”

 

"I understand, chief," Krem says, although he kneels up to put his smalls back on before getting comfortable on his side, since hay up in his bits wasn't his idea of fun. It's not like he's never seen other naked men before, but not up close. He can see from the outline of the Bull's trousers that his "axe", as he called it, is nothing to sneeze at, and he waits, nearly holding his breath.

 

Bull licks his lips as he pulls his trousers down, exposing his stomach in its full glory, and then the thatch of dark hair at the base of his cock. The foreskin is pulled taut around the head, but it doesn’t completely hide the thick silver ring that pierces through the hole in the tip and meets in a ball bearing beneath the head.

 

When Krem’s eyes widen in shock at the sight of his bling, and Bull laughs as he takes himself into his hand, pulling the foreskin back to show off the ring. “Do you like it? I’ve had it for years. It’s brought many a partner enormous pleasure.”

 

Krem has trouble tearing his eyes away, and not just because of the ring, although it certainly is captivating. It's one thing to feel it vaguely against his backside, or to see it still encased in the Bull's pants.

 

" _Maker_ ," Krem says, blowing out a breath, and finally looks up, shyly. "It's not uncomfortable?"

 

“Not at all,” Bull chuckles. “Sure, it was at first. Worst part was Stitches taking care of it to make sure it didn’t get infected. Now, though. Rubs me all the right ways during battle, gets my blood pumping. Didn’t used to have an excuse for popping a big one in the middle of a battle, but with this, I do. Would you like to touch? Or just watch.”

 

"Stitches," Krem says, shaking his head. Whatever it is the Bull pays her, she deserves a raise.

 

His groin actually gives another throb at the thought of the Bull getting randy in battle. Krem can't say he has the same reaction, but he certainly has a reaction to the Bull's reaction, if the events prior to Krem getting the guts to make a move was any indication. He starts to raise his hand in response, and then hesitates.

 

"I'd... like to see you do it– for a while," he says, and it sounds a bit like a question.

 

Bull nods knowingly, and lifts his hand. “Would you bestow upon me your spit?” he teases, and when Krem spits into his palm, he follows suit, and drops his hand back to his cock. His grip is tight and his foreskin moves with his hand as he slides his palm over his shaft with an appreciative moan. He thumbs at the ring, shooting jolts of pleasure down his cock, and leans down to kiss Krem again, biting gently at his lower lip.

 

“I’m going to be thinking about you-- about this for the rest of my life,” Bull growls. He’d love to assume it’ll happen again, but that isn’t for him to decide. He noses along his neck and ear, planting kisses and wet sucks and broad licks of his tongue.“You looked so good, I’ve never seen someone come so gorgeous.”

 

Krem doesn't accomplish nearly as much _watching_ as he was expecting, what with the Bull mouthing along his neck until his eyelids fall shut on their own, but he can hear the pleased growl, can feel it tickling his skin. He can hear the slide of skin on skin that makes his belly throb again.

 

"Pretty sure I _bleated_ ," he argues, even as he squirms in obvious pleasure. He finally nudges his face against the Bull's so that he can look back down and see that tight grip one more, and the spot of moisture gathering at the tip, glittering faintly with the light of the oil lamp. Drawing a breath, Krem reaches down to swipe his thumb across the Bull's sensitive cock head, feeling that slickness between his thumb and forefinger before touching him again, feeling with some surprise (why, he isn't sure) how warm the metal embedded in him is.

 

“Sexiest bleating I’ve ever heard in my life,” Bull laughs breathily, gasping when Krem’s fingers brush against him. He’s been with partners who were the most skilled sexual adventurers he’d ever had the pleasure of bedding, but he can say with confidence that Krem’s unsure and hesitant touch is the most incredible sensation he’s ever been gifted.

 

His hand is moving quicker now, his hips jerking with the motion against Krem’s unsteady fingers. He wraps his other arm beneath the boy’s head and pulls him to his chest, growling and groaning into his ears, burying his nose in Krem’s short hair, and he breathes his scent deeply.

 

"Whatever you say, chief," Krem replies, breathless and distracted, but he's hardly doing his job if he's not giving the Bull somewhat of a hard time. He rests his free hand against the curve of the Bull's warm belly, and traces his fingers against the Qunari's knuckles as he strokes himself. He drops lower, testing the weight of his balls against his palm and then continuing there when it earns Krem a ragged gasp.

 

"Talk to me," Krem murmurs, kissing his chest, and it could have just been continuing to teasingly imitate what the Bull had instructed him before, if he didn't honestly want to hear him.

 

“Fuck,” Bull feels a shock of pleasure rattle his spine at Krem’s words. He licks his lips and rests his cheek against the top of the boy’s head, the muscles of his thighs tensing and shaking as his hand starts to lose rhythm and his climax builds. “What do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you-- fuck-- tell you how much I got off sucking you? I want to do it again, I want to lay you down and suck you for hours, until you’re raw and sobbing-- god, Krem, there’s so much I want to do to you, there’s so much I want you to do to me-- fuck, Krem, I want you to fuck me.”

 

He's the one touching the Bull, but Krem is the one who lets out a shocked moan, turning his warm face inward against the Bull's chest for a moment just process all that the Bull is describing. The idea of having the man licking up into him again makes Krem's thighs squeeze together, but what he says after–

 

" _Fasta vass_ ," Krem gasps, his face reemerging as he continues to fondle and squeeze the Qunari's tight, heavy balls, "Me too, chief, I-I want to..."

 

"Say it," Bull growls."

 

"I want to fuck you, chief,"

 

It doesn't matter that Krem assumes it's only a fantasy, that he's ill-equipped, because it feels fantastic right now to imagine, and it has the Bull _roaring_ with pleasure.

 

When Bull comes, people know it. The horses whinny as his breath blasts against Krem’s shoulder, and his seed bursts against his belly. Pleasure surges through his body, pulsing in his cock as he fucks his own hand and claims Krem with his scent, with his come. His muscles tense and his nostrils flare and he moans again and again.

 

His pleasure finally slides back down into peaceful, sublime and throbbing pleasure. He grins, dopey, ear to ear and thrilled. It’s hard to believe that it’s come to this, he’s actually lying arm in arm with Krem, after agonizing over it for so long. He’s never waited so long to bed someone, and it’s never been so sweet.

 

“I love you,” he whispers, kissing Krem’s forehead, and then he laughs. “That sounds crazy, it doesn’t sound real. Does it sound real to you?”

 

It hits Krem more the second time than the first, the spot just under throat giving a painful throb at the Bull's words, like his heart is too big for his chest. He matches the Bull's laugh with a breathy chuckle of his own, drawing his fingers through the still warm come on the his own belly.

 

"It doesn't," Krem agrees, "But I... love you too... and I think I like hearing it."

 

“Good, cause I’m gonna keep on saying it until it sounds real,” Bull rolls over, propping himself up on his elbows on top of Krem so he can lean down and nuzzle him like a puppy. He leans up to look down at Krem, basking in the glow of the lamp and the raw, masculine beauty of Krem’s face. He breaks out in a grin and drops his full weight on Krem, earning a laughing wheeze as he rumbles affectionately and wiggles his ears against Krem’s face.

 

"Oh–fff– _Bull_ ," Krem complains through his laughter, "Do you suffocate everyone you've fucked or am I special?"

 

It's late enough they head back to camp rather than return to the lethargic drunks leftover from the party. Krem steals another kiss from the Bull when they arrive back, but returns to his own tent.

 

The others tease Krem in the morning over the marks on his neck, Skinner ruffling his hair and and Stitches poking his cheeks and cooing like a proud mother, but it nothing compared to what it would have been like to walk back into the middle of the celebrations looking debauched and embarrassed like he might have.

 

Ward leaves in a huff, which is just as well.


	7. Chapter 7

The city beside the town being plagued by the dragon was called... something. Krem was sure it started with a V, but he’d been so distracted by his own happiness-- by Bull’s arm around his waist, by the way he would pick him up to lift him just to feel Krem in his arms-- he wasn’t really paying attention to road signs.

 

Ward stops Krem from entering the client's shop, insisting that someone ought to stay outside and keep watch, and Krem obeys without complaint as usual, though he makes a face when the door shuts.

 

"Keep watch for _what_ ," he mutters to himself, and leans against the side of the building, people watching. He’s watching alright, and the only thing in this town are a crapload of fancy people who have no business in Ferelden. The entire city looks like it’s been fashioned off of Orlais, like some kind of diet royalty. It makes Krem roll his eyes.

 

A patrol of some kind of guards stalks by, and a bird picks crumbs off the cobblestones. A hungry dog trots by, and a pair of girls flutter their eyelashes at Krem as they pass from behind their sun umbrellas, which makes his cheeks flush as he struggles to at least smile like a normal person back at them, and they giggle together as they disappear around a corner.

 

He can hear Bull laughing riotously inside about something, and it strikes him how much he genuinely hates Ward, very suddenly, as it always does. Sometimes he seems like the most harmless, toothless and gutless coward Krem has ever met, and he almost pities the man in his pathetic self-loathing. Krem has more reason to dislike himself than Ward ever could, and even he is less unhappy than the rat-faced blond.

 

But other times, he hates him. He loathes him to his core, and despises the very ground he walks on. He tries not to let it consume him, he doesn’t ever want to leave the Chargers as long as he lives, he wants to live and die with them, and he won’t let Ward’s presence ruin that. Even if he does have power over Krem.

 

Lost in his furious inner monologues, Krem almost misses the voice of a well-dressed man nearby, speaking with a Chantry priestess.

 

“I just don’t know what to do, sister,” he says, his tone hushed. “The bandits have been getting so severe around these parts, there’ve been sixteen break-ins at night in the past three weeks alone, and I’m fairly certain the constables have lost count entirely on the number of attacks on the roads to and from this city.”

 

“What are you going to do?” the girl asks quietly. “About Celia?”

 

“I don’t know,” he admits, and Krem is fully paying attention now. “She’s due to arrive at her mother’s in less than a month, but with the way things are headed around here, I’m afraid to even let her walk the streets alone during the day. I can’t spare any guards to take her to Shalen, I barely have enough to prevent break-ins at my home, I’ve been handing them off to the rest of the city to try and protect them.”

 

“We could give you back the guards you sent to the Chantry--” the priestess starts, but the nobleman tuts his tongue and touches her shoulder.

 

“Don’t even suggest it,” he shakes his head. “They’re put there to take care of you and your sisters. I’ll figure something out.”

 

Krem has heard enough. He glances behind his shoulder, fixes his hair, and approaches the pair with exactly the sort of open, friendly smile he always has trouble getting right when there's girls about.

 

"I couldn't help but overhear about your situation," he begins, "You said Shalen, right?"

 

"Yes... why?" the nobleman asks, as Krem's face brightens at the answer.

 

"Coincidentally, my comrades and I are bodyguards for hire, and are heading out for Shalen midday tomorrow!–" Or they will be, if this works out– "You'll not find a more reliable company than The Chargers– for a fair price, we would delivery your girl safe and sound to her mother." The man glances at the priestess and then back at Krem, looking skeptical.

 

"I understand," Krem says, "Too serendipitous to be true, but as it happens, my company is just inside that fine shop right there, speaking with a man whose wares we have just today delivered safely and on time. Please, come meet my comrades, and speak with one of our satisfied clients." And another winning smile.

 

The noble clears his throat and offers his hand to Krem for a shake as the priestess nods her farewell and makes her leave down the road. His face is lined and tired, but kind. “Perseus Tremaine,” he introduces himself. “Frankly, it does sound too good to be true, but I’m in no place to argue good fortune when the Maker drops it in my lap. Guards for hire, you said? You are... mercenaries?”

 

Perseus Tremaine seems like the sort that would flinch at the word "mercenary", especially after so much talk of how this city is teeming with untrustworthy, malicious people ready to harm those he cares about. But the Iron Bull would never shy away from a question like that. He would argue that a group of mercenaries that are forthright about the nature of their work will seem like a wiser choice, in the end.

 

"That we are, Sir," Krem replies, politely beckoning the man to cross the street with him and enter the shop. Ward looks immediately furious, but thankfully the nobleman is looking over at the Bull and the shop owner.

 

"This is Sir Tremaine," Krem announces, "If you can spare a moment, he would like to speak to Mr. Hales about the work we've just completed, to see if The Chargers fit his needs."

 

The Bull’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise and he smiles over Ward’s head at Krem as the nobleman steps aside with the shop keep to speak with him. Bull wraps an arm around Krem’s shoulders, grinning like a fool.

 

“What have you done?” he says joyfully. “That man looks wealthy, did you hide his dog and then offer to find it for him?”

 

"Better than that," Krem tells him in a soft voice with a smile, "He looks like he'd be willing to pay just about anything to get his little girl safe to Shalen– better than staying in this ridiculous city any longer, I imagine."

 

“An escort mission!” Bull hisses gleefully through his teeth. “We’ll be eating like kings in Shalen with the money this man’ll pay out.”

 

They glance up to see Perseus looking over at them, and he beckons Krem over with a motion of his hand. Bull looks at Krem and them back up at Perseus, confused, and points at himself in question, but the man shakes his head. With a shrug, Bull nudges Krem over.

 

“All good things?” Krem asks as he approaches, trying to appear both trustworthy and capable.

 

“Very,” Perseus says, though his voice is tight with apprehension. “But... what of your Qunari friend? Is he... I mean, is he... civilized? He wouldn’t try to hurt my daughter, would he? I’ve not heard very good things about the Qunari.”

 

That... wasn't a turn Krem was expecting this to take, but when he glances back at the Bull with Perseus, as if considering the Qunari himself, all he can see in the large man's eyes is a clear go ahead. Krem turns back and gives the nobleman a reassuring smile.

 

"You haven't got a thing to worry about– he's been well trained to listen to anything I say. Wouldn't hurt a fly– without my say so. The bandits around these parts, though? There's not a finer warrior."

 

“Mmh,” the nobleman makes a nervous sound. “You’ve really got a good grip on him, then? He listens to you?”

 

“Every word,” Krem says, dishonestly but believably.

 

“Alright...” Perseus’s expression is grim. “Even so, if you could keep her far away from him in travels, it would ease my worry. I’ve lost two daughters to bandits who thought they owed them something by being female, and only two daughters left alive, so you can understand my concern. My wife is as distraught as I am over the whole matter, so much so that she can’t bear to be in our home anymore and relocated to Shalen, only now she wants Celia to live with her, and I...” he trails off, and folds his hands together as if in prayer, holding them to her face. “It’s a great treasure, that I would be entrusting you men with, one of the few things that has any real meaning to me anymore. If something were to happen to her, I’m not sure my wife, her sister Dahlia or I could take it.”

 

Etiquette between the classes in a city like this tend to be pretty strict, but Krem takes a chance and places a consoling hand on Perseus' shoulder. He had his fair share of experience with men that thought they were owed a lot more than they were, himself. In this, he can speak honestly.

 

"Not a thing in this world would keep me from protecting your daughter from people like that," Krem informs him. From the look on the nobleman's face, shock and then understanding, Krem supposes he probably assumes he's lost a sibling or a lover in a similar manner. But whatever his assumption, he begins to nod.

 

"Alright," Perseus says again, and guides Krem back out of the shop to discuss price. Krem, reeling in his mind over taking charge of an aspect of the job he's never been entrusted with before, somehow manages to keep his wits about him. He walks back in the shop once he'd been given directions to Perseus' estate, and bid the nobleman farewell, a little wide-eyed.

 

He tells the Bull the number. "Half here, half in Shalen," he says, "Is... that alright, chief?"

 

Bull scoffs in polite surprise. “I’m shocked you pulled this off. He never would have spoken to me. I told you you’re cute, didn’t I? Very trustworthy face, you’ve got, lad. So am I your pet or your slave, or what? I need to know how to act when we go meet Lord Puffy and his daughter, I’ll prance like a trained horse if he pays what I think he’ll pay.”

 

"Ah... a pet? I suppose," Krem answers apologetically. Good for business or not, he's not feeling copacetic about this. "I didn't play you off as very bright, chief," he admits, "Painted you like you'd listen to me and enjoy doing it."

 

Bull gives a genuine laugh, and then waggles his eyebrows. “Well, lad, I would,” he says with a wily grin, and several of the Chargers roll their eyes or groan good-naturedly. “If a human leader is what Sir Posh needs to pay us his daughter’s weight in gold, then a human leader is what he’ll get.”

 

“Sir,” Ward hisses through gritted teeth. “ _I’m_ second in command. Shouldn’t _I_ pose as the human commander?”

 

“Krem spoke with him first,” Bull lays a hand on Ward’s shoulder. “Besides, you’re a damn good soldier, but Krem just has one of those _faces_ , you know?”

 

“No, I _don’t_ know,” Ward barely manages to keep from frothing at the mouth.

 

Krem crosses his arms, shifting uncomfortably and thinking back to Ward's accusations, and sighs. It made no difference to him then, and no difference to him now– all Krem's ever wanted is to contribute what he can to the Chargers. Ward isn't going to get in the way of that. He doesn't deserve it, but Krem gestures Ward over so he can speak to him quietly.

 

"Look, I didn't say directly 'I'm the big boss'. If you want to walk into the man's estate and challenge the expectations of a client who's already a little nervous and flighty, be my guest. But if you can handle one man mistaking me for having any power in this company, I'd advise it. Level with me, at least think of the money, Ward."

 

“I don’t care about the _money_ ,” Ward growls. “I was never _in_ this for the money. I didn’t join the Chargers for the _money_. You are toeing the line, I have half a mind to chuck you out on your arse. I will not tolerate insubordination.”

 

" _Please_ enlighten me as to why you're here, then, Ward," Krem hisses. He knows the rest of the Chargers are watching them, although they are keeping their voices low. Krem can't imagine anyone being surprised to see this finally happening. "I don't understand– I have been doing _everything_ you ask, all I want is to be a good soldier! What is it you _want?"_

 

Ward seizes Krem by the front of his collar which peeks over his breastplate, but makes no other move to harm him. It might be because he doesn’t want to, or it might have something to do with the fact that the rest of the Chargers have stiffened with their hands on their weapons.

 

“I want _command_ ,” he hisses, low enough that none of them can hear him. “I want my position sealed in stone. I want to take over when Bull inevitably charges headlong into a dragon and _loses_ for once. I used to be in the Tevinter army, like you, and I was a damn good soldier. I was captain of a platoon 100 men strong, and I was _respected_ , until it got out who my _family_ was and they decided I couldn’t be trusted anymore, and dismissed me after nearly ten years of service. I’m not going to let that happen a second time because of some bratty teenager who got up the nerve to suck the commander’s cock.”

 

The idea of letting his fist crack Ward's nose is so satisfying a notion Krem can maybe even start to understand how the Bull gets so worked up in battle, but when he actually speaks to the second in command, he's calm and cold as ice.

 

"Chief would take an arrow for you," he says, "You hover over him like a vulture, and you try to intimidate me just for doing my job, and being good at it. I can't imagine why anyone would find you untrustworthy, Ward."

 

Krem turns on his heel and join the rest of the Chargers, who are all itching to leave. "Have any pointers for me, chief?" he asks, taking up his side, "Don't want to blow this by seeming green."

 

Bull talks with Krem the whole way there, giving him tips and tricks for how to be a charismatic leader. How to smile, how to charm, how to bat his eyelashes properly. In almost any other situation, he would have suggested flirting, but for this job he instructs Krem on how to be polite, courteous and genuine. Ward is _seething_ behind them.

 

They skip dinner collectively to regroup and head to the nobleman’s home-- which is hilariously large, much larger in fact than any other home Krem has seen since leaving Tevinter-- but they’re surprised to find that Perseus is apparently handing out all of his spare rooms to families whose homes were destroyed by bandits, giving them a place to stay while they work on repairing their own houses.

 

“He seems a little too good to be true, doesn’t he?” Bull mutters to Krem as they’re lead through the winding halls with their sprawling windows, passing quiet and polite townsfolk helping servants with cleaning and errands, and guards dotted around as sparsely as the potted plants. “Think we can get him elected for Emperor of Orlais? Bet he’d do a better job than the current tit.”

 

Krem wrinkles his nose as they continue to walk through unending halls– he suspects he's allergic to this much fanciness, but seeing commonfolk residing in room after room helps in some ways. Puts pressure on him in other ways, too, not that protecting this man's daughter wasn't already a lot of pressure.

 

"I bet we could manage it," Krem replied with a snort, and can't quite help adding, "Don't think Sir Posh is going to expect politics out of you, though."

 

Perseus is sitting in a large office looking distraught, hanging his head in his hands. When the guard escorting them clears his throat, the nobleman snaps to attention and stands up swiftly, crossing the room to shake Krem’s hand again.

 

“This is, ah, quite a party you’ve got here, sir,” Perseus says, looking over the group. His tone is just slightly hopeful. If there are this many men at Krem’s disposal, he thinks, his daughter might have a real chance at safety. “How many are you?”

 

“Fourteen, sir,” Krem says, and then repeating a joke he’s heard Bull say many times that has gotten a laugh out of people, “And a half.”

 

“A... half?” Perseus frowns anxiously.

 

“Dwarf joke, sir,” Rooker clears his throat from the edge of the group, and that gets at least a smile out of the noble as he looks back up at Krem.

 

“I’m pleased to see how many there are. I think I’d feel safe, placing my daughter in your care,” Perseus says, clasping his hands together in front of him. He glances nervously for a moment over at the Bull, but says nothing. “On the subject of payment, I am prepared to give you one thousand pieces of gold, and I’ve sent correspondence to my wife by bird to let her know to prepare another thousand for Celia’s safe arrival.”

 

Ward clears his throat and steps forward, offering his hand. “Ward, second in command,” he says, although the words taste like bile in his mouth. He couldn’t imagine being second to _Krem_ , but although it infuriates him, he knows Krem is right. He can’t jeopardize such a well-paying job. “May we meet the girl?”

 

“Certainly,” Perseus says, his tone tired and breathless, and he glances over at a servant girl. “Matilda, could you please fetch Celia?” she curtsies at him and turns in a flourish of skirts to go and get the girl. “She’s turning thirteen years old next month, and my wife wants her at her side so she can groom her into a proper noblewoman. Our other daughter is already too far gone,” he gives an affectionate-sounding laugh. “She wants to breed horses for a living, and she’s the best rider I’ve ever seen. If she didn’t have three foals due any day now, I’m sure she would want to accompany you to Shalen. Noblewoman she’ll never be, but she’s one _hell_ of a professional.”

 

The Bull’s heart is warmed by the affectionate way Perseus speaks of his daughters. The way human families are structured has always been a source of great interest to him, but he doesn’t speak up despite his curiosity. He doesn’t want to do anything to frighten the poor man. He already looks like he’s one raised voice away from fainting into an early grave.

 

Matilda returns a moment later, hand-in-hand with a small girl. Wearing a dark blue gown, her long black hair falls around her shoulders in rich black waves. Her wide green eyes peering up at the band of dirty mercenaries, she darts across the room to her father and hides half behind him, clutching at his coat, peeking out at Krem, and then over to Bull, before glancing around at the rest of their faces.

 

“These are the ones who’ll take me to mum?” she asks her father quietly. “They look scary. Especially the big one.”

 

Krem isn't used to feeling any particular way about a client- certainly not liking one- for he often isn't even in the room during meetings. Not that he's about to propose to the guy either, with the way he regards the Bull, but it's hard not to appreciate how much he clearly cares for his daughters as people.

 

Krem watches as Perseus turns to his daughter, his palms cupping her face. "Now, Celia," he says, with a face of steady, fatherly confidence that makes it clear none of the concerns he has expressed openly to the Chargers will make it to his daughter's ears, "I would only hire the best to protect you– Cremisius Aclassi here will be watching over you–" he drops his voice quieter– "He is not nearly so scary, is he?"

 

"No," Celia says, peeking past him to look at Krem again, who drops his In Charge stance long enough to smile softly. For a job, he can take being pointed out as the soft cuddly one, he supposes.

 

"And the big one listens to him," Perseus concludes, "There will be nothing to fear."

 

“I’m not scary, anyway,” Bull suddenly speaks up. “My face was just born that way. Maybe in some species, _you’re_ the terrifying one. With those big pretty eyes you could charm and wile _goblins_ , I bet. You could be a Goblin _Queen_.”

 

“You’ve met goblins?” Celia asks breathlessly, both she and her father are surprised to hear complete sentences come out of the giant.

 

“Oh, loads,” Bull says casually. “They’re in need of some strong leadership. I bet you could even whip Krem into shape while you travel with us. He needs a firm hand and you’ve likely got the firmest.”

 

Celia is completely out from behind her father now, grinning broadly, and she clears her throat, smoothing down the front of her dress before she steps up to Krem and offers her hand up to be kissed, like a noblewoman. Krem, blushingly, does so as the others snicker quietly to themselves.

 

“Celia Tremaine,” she introduces herself properly. Perseus looks like he might just burst with pride. "Pleasure to meet you."

 

"The pleasure is all mine, my lady," Krem replies, hoping the title was right. He's not certain he had Perseus' honorific right either, for that matter– he's only learned the most general Southern terms. No one corrects him at least, and after discussing a meeting place the following morning, Perseus and Celia bid them farewell for the evening.

 

Krem sighs when they leave the estate, "I was about to explain that we just look scary to scare off bandits, or something like that, but I don't know whether that would've made things worse to even mention it," he confesses to the Bull, "I think you might have charmed Perseus after all."

 

“I can charm the pants off of anyone who breathes,” Bull says cheekily. “Figuratively _and_ literally.”

 

===

 

The group splits up to find lodging, rather than completely overrun one poor innkeeper, once a meeting place is set at dawn. The Bull keeps his hand around Krem’s shoulder as they locate an inn attached to a tavern, and sit down to a quick meal before moving next door to find a room.

 

When Krem tries to part ways, Bull takes him by the arm in confusion. “Where are you off to, exactly?” he chuckles. “This is our first opportunity to sleep in a bed together. Your tent’s too small for me to fit in at camp, but we could both fit in a bed without a struggle.”

 

"Oh, I just– I'm not used to sharing a bed," Krem says, even as he feels with a twist of his stomach. The Bull isn't going to understand unless he tells the truth about the manner he usually wakes up, with all the cold sweating and squealing involved, and Krem... Krem doesn't want to go there. "I kick in my sleep," he explains, "A lot."

 

“Oh, well, you know my one true weakness is being kicked by tiny ginger boys,” Bull holds up his hands in mock defense. “I just crumple like wet sand.”

 

Krem rolls his eyes and blows out a breath. He doesn't have a nightmare every night. Maybe... it'll be alright. And there are other benefits to sharing a room, benefits Krem is having some trouble ignoring.

 

"Well, if you think you can handle the beating," he says, and snorts at the Bull's immediate shout of celebration, "Alright, chief."

 

The room itself is modest, small, and the bed is... enough space for cuddling close, which is hardly a mark against it. Krem closes the door, and pulls the Bull down by the horns for a kiss, wasting no time.

 

Bull can’t help but grin at Krem’s enthusiasm. They haven’t had much chance to fool around since that night in the barn. It’s hard to maintain a physical relationship when the company is always on the move, and for some godforsaken reason, Krem doesn’t want to sleep in Bull’s tent. He understands wanting his space, but he hasn’t spent a single night with Bull since they started this dalliance.

 

He lifts Krem up against him, right off the ground, and flips them around so Krem’s back is to the door, his legs wrapped firmly around the Bull’s waist. “I like you eager,” he rumbles in his ear, kissing down his neck. “But you’re going to need to be a lot quieter tonight than you were in the barn. Think you can handle that? I know you’re a _squealer_ ,” he squeezes Krem’s ass with both hands, pleased by how well it fits in his palms.

 

Krem clings hard to the Bull for a moment, until his back is safely pressed against the door, for even if he knows the Qunari wouldn't drop him, it's another thing to convince his reflexes of that. He lets out a shaky, giddy laugh, turning his face to kiss the top of the Bull's head.

 

"I seem to remember someone startling the horses," Krem says, "Maybe it's not me we should– _ah_ – worry about."

 

Bull laughs, low and genuine, as he captures Krem’s mouth in a kiss, and he laughs into that as well. It’s incredibly sometimes how quickly and easily he can get aroused, he should really probably invest in a cock cage, his prick is going to get him in trouble one of these days.

 

“You remember the watchword?” Bull questions as he sucks fresh marks into Krem’s neck and shoulder, prying his shirt open to get at his freckled skin. When Krem just moans and tips his head back, Bull pulls back to look down at him, stiffening his muscles to resist when Krem tries to pull him back down by the horns. “I’m serious.”

 

Krem's eyes dart around slightly, taking in the Bull's expression. He doesn't like the interruption, or the reminder that there's a possibility of him ruining the evening if a bad feeling or memory sneaks up on him... but the Bull is just trying to protect him, he reasons.

 

"Katoh," he says, and leans up to kiss the Bull's prickly chin, beckoning him back in.

 

Bull smiles and seals their mouths together again, lifting Krem off the door and walking him effortlessly across the room to lay him out on the bed. He leans over him, propping one knee on the mattress, running hands down his clothed body as he resumes making a pattern of marks on his neck. “What would you like me to do to you tonight?” he asks in his dark colored voice as he noses down the front of Krem’s shirt, where sweat has soaked through his binder and shirts and left a bitter, masculine scent, a scent that is so distinct to Krem it gets Bull’s cock hard like nothing else.

 

Hovering above him as he is, there's not whole lot Krem can reach to touch, but he touches what he can, traces the Bull's horns, the jut of his cheekbones, his warm, bare shoulders. "I liked what we did before," he says, "But I want to try more–" he squirms beneath the Bull as his big hands drag his shirt up– "and I want this stuff _off_. It's been too warm."

 

Bull gives a dark laugh as he pulls off Krem’s shirt and drops it to the floor, leaving his binder in place unless otherwise instructed. He kisses down Krem’s belly as he pulls off his boots and slides his trousers and smalls down his legs until he’s totally bare under the Bull’s gaze.

 

“Have you put any thought into taking something inside?” Bull asks, dropping down onto his side on the bed beside Krem as he traces fingertips down his belly and up his thighs. “Not my cock, I’d be impressed if you ever wanted to embark on that adventure. Just, in general.” he swirls a fingertip, feather-light, over Krem’s clit and kisses his ear.

 

Krem's eyes fall closed at just that touch, shifting his hips to press himself against the pad of the Bull's finger just where he wants it for the time being, not even fully on the hood above his clit, very slightly to the side. When the Bull gives another rumbling chuckle, Krem remembers that he'd been asked a question, and opens his eyes, flashing his teeth in a sheepish smile.

 

"I'm not... sure," he answers finally, "I don't know if I'd like it, but... later tonight, I think, you can try."

 

“Actually... I’ve got a fun idea,” Bull rumbles. “Turn over on your side, facing away from me, that’s it.” Snug up behind Krem, one arm under his head and the other free to roam, and roam he does. He strokes Krem’s neck and down his arm, over his belly and across his thigh, taking his sweet time before dipping his fingers between Krem’s legs. “I need you nice and wet for this though, boy, so don’t hold back on me.”

 

He sucks on Krem’s ear and neck as he strokes his folds, rubbing the full length of his sex and pinching his clit lightly, always through the hood, always just the pressure Krem needs. Krem isn’t shy about letting him know if he’s doing too much or not enough, where to move and how to touch him. Bull is utterly charmed by his honest cravings, and never falters in providing him exactly the stimulation he needs.

 

“One of these days, I swear you’re gonna fuck me,” Bull growls in his ear, earning a whimper from Krem. The boy has turned his head to bite into the Bull’s arm, just to keep quiet as Bull strokes and pets him enthusiastically. “I’ll find a way. I need you inside me.”

 

It's the second time they've done it like this, the Bull large and warm and close behind him, holding him secure and talking to him so low and soft it makes his ears tickle, and in experienced as he is, Krem's about ready to call it his favorite thing. He's _sopping_ wet, the Bull's fingers occasionally making obscene little sounds between his folds, and it's a miracle Krem hasn't cried out yet– especially when the man insists again on talking all about how he wants _Krem_ to fuck _him_.

 

Nevermind the logistics, it's the want behind the Bull's words that floors Krem.

 

"Find a way and I'm for it– oh maker," Krem groans unintentionally loud, covering his mouth with one hand as he grinds against the Bull's hand. After a couple more shallow gasps, he curses again, dropping his hand. "I think– I want to be able to take a full bloody breath, so... I mean... I think I want to take the binder off."

 

Bull’s brows raise, but he doesn’t question it. He leans up and undoes the tight cording in the front, and the fabric snaps apart under the pressure. Bull makes a sound of discomfort in Krem’s place at the sight of the hard red lines the cloth dug into his chest, but he doesn’t stare long, burying his face in Krem’s neck. “Do you want me to touch you there, or no?” he asks quietly, breathing down his throat in between kisses.

 

Krem takes a couple deep breaths, sinking back against the Bull, and rubs where the fabric dug into him most. From this angle, the Bull can't see much, which is helping for the moment, tilting his chin up with a hum in response to the larger man's kisses.

 

"Yes," he decides, as if he's just then determined that it would be alright, although his hands still cover himself, just not as tightly.

 

Bull’s fingers are soaking wet as he reaches past the open vest, and he finds a nipple with ease. He’s charmed by how small Krem’s breasts are, they suit him well, even though he’d be better suited by a flat chest. Krem’s breath hitches and he jerks up into the Bull’s touch,which only makes his cock pulse harder, and he growls as he grinds his hips into the boy’s backside.

 

“You’re so handsome I could cry about it,” Bull groans in Krem’s ear, watching his dark, lithe form squirming on the bed under his touch.

 

It could cross the line into condescending so easily, but when the Bull gets his hands on the parts of Krem that make him feel the least secure in what he feels and calls himself, and then continues to call him handsome in an earnest groan, it sends shivers all through Krem's body. It's affirming– it's also a turn on.

 

He squirms in place, his breath coming out in broken gasps as the Bull squeezes the slight swells of his chest, thumbs across his nipples over and over until they stiffen. With an audible swallow, Krem slips his own hand between his thighs, continuing what the Bull started, anticipating the moment the Qunari realizes what he's doing with a thrill.

 

It feels like a filthy secret, like he’s doing something terribly naughty, as he pets himself the way the Bull did. His fingers are nothing like Bull’s, they’re much smaller and his callouses are still young, and it feels different just on principle, having his own hand on himself rather than being touched by another. But it draws a gasp out of him nonetheless, and when Bull looks down and sees what he’s doing, he gives a fierce growl of pleasure.

 

“Oh, Maker, Krem,” Bull nearly _whimpers_ his cock throbs so hard. “I need you, lad.”

 

Afraid he'll let out too loud a noise, Krem covers his mouth with his other hand and nods enthusiastically, backing his ass closer against the outline of the Bull's cock in his pants. Simply copying the sort of things the Bull has been doing to him, Krem can’t quite help but whine in the back of his throat as he swirls two of his fingers above his sweet spot, drawing out a pleasure bright and warm.

 

"You... had an idea," he prompts the Bull, "I want to hear it."

 

“I would fuck you, but not like you think,” Bull leaves shiny kisses on Krem’s shoulder, and he slides his hand down the boy’s back to his ass, and takes just a brief moment to touch his hole there before inching his fingers between his folds from the back, gathering moisture. “Like this,” he moves his fingers forward and then draws them back, dragging the full length of them against Krem’s sex, without penetrating him. His palm cups Krem’s ass on every back stroke and then digs against his taint as he fucks his hand forward. “Between your thighs, right up against you, but not inside you.”

 

No amount of covering his mouth stops the loud groan that escapes Krem when the Bull gives his very compelling demonstration– leaving little doubt that the human is on board with his plan. Krem nods again, his voice tight when he speaks up.

 

" _Maker,_ yes."

 

Bull sits up just enough to undo his belt and pull down his trousers, freeing his cock from its cloth cell. He groans as the cool air touches volcanic skin, and he spits into his palm to stroke himself for just a touch of extra moisture before he guides his prick to the cleft of Krem’s ass.

 

He glides easily between Krem’s thighs like a hot sword through pork, sliding up against his sex. His way is eased by the slick pouring from Krem like a tavern spigot, and he gives a cry that is much too high pitched to be dignified when the hard steel in the tip of Bull’s cock grinds up hard against his clit.

 

Bull wraps an arm around his chest and spreads his hand on Krem’s sternum, his elbow against his belly, fingers splayed loosely around his throat in an affectionate, deep hold. He’s pinned against Bull’s with absolutely no chance of escape-- not unless he uses the word that will stop everything. But the closeness and possession is comforting, and when Bull starts to move his hips, and his fire-hot cock drags against his folds with every slide in and out, the last thing in Krem’s mind is the word _katoh_.

 

Which is to say, there are a _lot_ of other words and noises building up in Krem's throat as the Bull sets a steady rhythm that sends a hot lance through his belly, which prompts Krem to clap another hand over his mouth.

 

"Must be pretty talkative under there," the Bull obverses against his ear with great amusement. Krem sticks an elbow behind him, though not especially hard, as his hips thrust back against the Qunari in a desperate, constrained dance.

 

"Andraste's _tits_ ," he groans, startling both a bark of laughter, and a particularly jerky thrust out of the Bull that has Krem arching his back. His breathing suddenly picks up as the Bull continues to buck against him, and Krem gasps " _Kaffas_ I–" and comes with a startled wail of his own.

 

Bull slows down as he feels Krem rock and come against him. It’s the most beautiful thing in the natural world, watching someone orgasm, but Krem brings to it a certain innocent dignity that breaks the Bull’s heart, it’s so lovely. He wraps around him in a tight hug, grinding his hips very slowly, kissing every inch of skin he can reach. He pulls Krem’s binder off his body backwards, tossing it aside so he can touch him and kiss him everywhere.

 

“Fucking hell, I love you,” he growls, like it’s a curse to ward away evil, like it’s a weapon to shield Krem with from the rest of the entire world.

 

Krem can only tremble and pant in the Bull's arms, his body loose and heavy with the aftereffects of his orgasm. He turns his head to rub his cheek against the Bull's face, and wiggles lazily, making soft "oh"s as the Bull's cock, still hot and hard between his thighs, rubs against him and sends faint throbs through his groin.

 

"I did it too quickly," he laments, although as relaxed as he is, it's hard to imagine he's really all that broken up about it.

 

At this, the Bull laughs. “Oh, little boy,” he rumbles with affection. “Don’t you know you can come more than once? You’re gifted that by the nature of your parts. I could have you coming again and again and again, for hours, I could make you come so many times you forgot what it felt like not to be in pleasure. It is the _only_ gift your parts have given you, but it is a good one, don’t you think?”

 

Krem's eyes are still heavy lidded when he cranes his neck to look back at the Bull to see if he seems to be kidding, looking sweet and a little dopey, and a lot surprised. "Oh," is his soft response, followed by a shuddering sigh, overwhelmed at the thought. He's still sensitive, but the Bull rocks his hips as gentle and patient as can be.

 

It isn't very long before Krem begins to meet those thrusts again, and as soon as the idea occurs to reach down to brush his fingers against the Bull's sensitive cockhead as it pokes between his legs, he acts on it.

 

Bull bites into Krem’s shoulder, blowing hot air out his nose as Krem’s fingers begin to stroke him. He barely has to get the words out before Krem is tugging very gently at the ring with every pass of Bull’s cock between his thighs, rubbing up against him and spreading his slick down his legs as he fucks the tight passage of his muscular limbs.

 

“Oh, _fuck_ me,” he groans, his ears heating up; he’s blushing with the force of his love and lust for Krem. He’s had sex like this before, but it’s never been like this. With others it always tended to feel like a consolidation prize, but with Krem it feels like the ultimate connection, the height of their sex together. He hardly ever expects Krem to want to take his cock inside, and he wouldn’t dare impose himself on the boy. His body is so small and tight, he’d probably sooner hurt him than give him pleasure. This, though, it’s good for both of them, and it feels like they’re really coupling, at last.

 

His hips snap faster and more sloppily the closer he nudges towards orgasm. His breath scalds Krem’s neck, drenched in saliva from his kisses as it is. He’s making guttural, animal noises, the soft bestial braying that his species forwent in favor of speech hundreds of years ago. They’re sincere noises, if animalistic, but Krem doesn’t seem to mind them. He reaches up with one hand to take Bull’s horn, meeting every one of his thrusts now, and it has him shaking with his approaching orgasm.

 

With his hands between his thighs, forming a ring for the Bull to fuck through as he nears his completion, Krem has to grit his teeth to keep quiet– not that it matters especially, with the delicious grunts and groans that the Bull is making. Krem's chest swells with pride to know that he's responsible for much of that, and the heat builds between his thighs once more, just as the Bull promised.

 

"You're close," he murmurs, with a breathy, joyous laugh, "G- go on, chief."

 

Bull might have drawn blood when he bites Krem’s shoulder to keep from roaring, but if he did, he’s certain Krem doesn’t care. His seed splashes against his thighs and over the blankets, which will need to be wiped up, but he can’t even think of that right now. His vision has whited out his heart has swollen to take up his entire body, both in the way every nerve pulses in time with his rapid heartbeat, and because the affection in him for Krem is soul-deep as he comes against him.

 

He sags as the pleasure passes, licking the place he bit tenderly. No blood, but the teeth marks are deep, and will definitely bruise. The idea of it makes his cock throb limply in between Krem’s legs.

 

“Maker’s balls,” he gasps out, and then laughs with Krem. “Roll over on your back, I want to finish you with my mouth.”

 

Krem is no stranger to bumps and bruises, often considers them the mark of a job complete. The marks the Bull makes on him, as he's already discovered in the past few days, fill him with entirely different kind of warmth, and it's thrilling to know the sting he feels on his shoulder and in some spots on his neck will remind him of their activities at all sorts of random points in his day, for the next week, at least.

 

Krem falls back on his belly when the Bull lets him go, letting out a long breath, and then turns over again like he was instructed, letting out a whimper as the large man climbs over him, nuzzling his neck and bare chest. His hands start to raise up to cover himself on reflex, but then he lets them slide away and spreads his legs instead, the ache within him profound after hearing and feeling the Bull's spectacular release.

 

Bull kisses down his chest and then glances up, asking permission with his eyes alone, and when Krem doesn’t shy away, the Bull gently closes his mouth over one of Krem’s nipples. It’s sweet and sour with the slick he’d toyed with it minutes ago, and it tastes of Krem’s fluids and his sweat, the most intoxicating flavor Bull has ever experienced on Earth.

 

He wraps an arm behind Krem’s waist as he licks across his nipple, lifting one of his thighs to grind his pubic bone between his legs gently, just to give him a little extra stimulation as he pinches his other nipple in time with the sucking and swirling of his tongue. He doesn’t cup or knead his breasts, he just pays specific attention to his nipples unless requested of otherwise.

 

"Ah, Bull!" Krem _squeaks_ , Maker strike him dead, his face burning up immediately. He holds on tight to the Bull's horns as he licks and sucks at his nipples until they are oversensitive and rigid, letting go almost reluctantly as he begins his journey south.

 

"C'mon," he whispers, when he pulls his leg away and brings his face down to kiss below his navel, just above his pubes, in the ticklish, tender crease where inner thigh meets groin, which almost makes him kick with sudden sensitivity. " _Bull_ ," he says, louder.

 

The Bull chuckles and dips his face in where it belongs. His nose rests against Krem’s pubic bone and he opens his eyes, looking up at his lover from between his spread thighs. The noises that his mouth makes are obscene, wet slurping and sucking, humming in pleasure and delight as he adds his saliva to the cocktail of fluids making Krem soaking wet.

 

He grinds the pad of his thumb against the hole hidden in Krem’s folds, but makes no move to dip inside, he just gives him a little pressure there, a little taste of what they could explore in the future. His face is drenched, and his stubble provides a burning sting to the encounter, scraping Krem’s most intimate, sensitive flesh, waking his nerves back up whenever they started to get too lethargic.

 

Gone is the Krem that squirmed shyly as Bull nosed around his smalls their first time– with a sobbing moan the human arches his back, hands on the Bull's horns unselfconsciously, and presses against his mouth, against his thumb, seeking more of the dull that seems almost to provide the scaffolding for the sharp pleasure he feels to build higher, higher.

 

" _Bull_ , ah, Bull I'm close," he announces, and he truly is, incredibly, fantastically.

 

“Try not to wake the neighbors as you come,” Bull rumbles, and his voice vibrates against Krem’s clit, causing him to shout out and clap a hand over his mouth. With a wicked smile, Bull starts to hum an old Qunari song, keeping it low in his throat so his tongue and lips vibrate against Krem like an overpowered runestone, humming him a song to climax by.

 

It's too much to bear, as the Bull smugly knew it would be. Despite his efforts, Krem comes with an open mouthed wail behind his hands, grinding recklessly against the Bull's face with a forcefulness he wouldn't have dared using were he not lost to the pleasure of a second orgasm, which doesn't hit him as suddenly, but stretches on and on, until he's shaking.

 

As he is gasping for breath, someone thumps three times against the wall behind him, which nearly sends him shooting up into the ceiling.

 

" _Bull_ , you _ass_ ," Krem says with a quiet wail of a different sort, still very much out of breath, bumping his knee up against his horn and making it clear who he thought was to blame.

 

Bull laughs as he pulls back, his face shiny from the nose down in the candle light. “What?” he grins as he picks up Krem’s shirt to wipe his face. “I wear it as a badge of honor when I get told to quiet down. It means I’m doing a damn good job. Nobody gets told to quiet down who did an _okay_ job. Not even a _satisfactory_ job. That only comes from when my partner is in such bliss that the Maker himself came down and blessed the fucking bed.”

 

Krem tries to hold an irritated face, but doesn't hold out long, with the strangely endearing sight of the Bull wiping all _his_ juices of his face. Fasta vass. He lets his head fall back against the mattress, his eyes closing as he lets out a long yawn, sleepiness hitting him with the force and suddenness of a brick.

 

"You did a damn good job," he tells the Bull, "C'mere."

 

“Yes I did,” Bull says indignantly as he pulls the covers back and cuddles under them with Krem against his chest. “Tomorrow I’m going to tell everyone how I got you to squeal like a baby nug.”

 

"You'll do no such thing," Krem says, his words warped with another yawn and with little fire behind it as he curls up, too warm and sweaty for cuddling to really be appropriate but it's somehow perfect anyways. Or at least perfect enough to fall asleep immediately, even before the Bull manages to reach over and snuff out the lamp.

 

 

 

 

\--

 

 

 

 

There are hands on him, jagged fingernails that dig into the meat of his thighs and sneering mouths spitting upon him. The hands tear at his clothes, tear at his skin, until he is laid bear and bleeding and raw.

 

They are shoving his thighs apart. They are trying to make him better.

 

When Krem wakes up he is still in that tavern for long moments as he shakes in the bed, damp with sweat and and tears, sounding like a dying animal, like his rib cage is constricted, his breathing comes out in clipped, painful gasps that do nothing useful.

 

Bull is jerked awake, and for a moment he thinks they’re under attack, and in his disorientation he grabs for the staff of his axe, laying against the headboard.

 

“What is it?” he says, his voice sharp with protective instinct, but blurry around the edges with sleep that hasn’t faded yet. “Krem, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” he focuses his attention on the boy, who has folded in on himself, scrubbing at his thighs with both hands. “Krem, Krem,” he pulls his hands away from his thighs before he can break the skin with his nails. “What’s happened?”

 

The Bull's voice knocks the last tendrils of the nightmare away from Krem, and he blinks several times, and distantly, he realizes it's happened again, and it was bad. Is bad, because he still hasn't placed where he is, and he's fucking _naked_ , and his heart still feels like it's punching a hole straight out of his chest.

 

"I don't– can't–," he rasps, pressing the pads of his fingers hand into his sternum as he fight to draw full breath.

 

“Shh, love,” Bull says, realizing now that Krem had woken from a nightmare. He’d made mentions of them before, but he’s never seen one, and he had no idea they were this bad. Surely, he’s had nightmares of his own, but he’s never witnessed anything like this before, and although he knows exactly what this nightmare is about, he still wants to ask. He doesn’t. “I’m here,” he says, holding Krem against his chest, but not too tightly, in case he needs to turn away, needs to not be touched. “I’ll protect you.”

 

The first thing Krem does is cram his face against the Bull's chest, which is concerning at first, as he's still hyperventilating, but after what feels like an eternity passes, he begins to calm down, feeling the Bull's heartbeat and the vibrations of his voice more than hearing the words themselves.

 

Just when he no longer feels like he is suffocating, the shame of what has just occurred hits him, and he begins to sob, frustrated, mortified tears, but not once doesn't he push away from the Bull. As much as he didn't want him to see this, he can't bear to let go.

 

Bull doesn’t say anything else. He doubts there’s anything he _could_ say. He has no idea what it’s like to live with the trauma that Krem has been through, he can’t even hope to imagine it. Arguably the worst thing to ever happen to him so far was losing his eye, but even that isn’t anything compared to what happened to Krem, and he couldn’t even compare it to the boy for fear of deepening his anguish with guilt.

 

So he does all he can do. Which is just to hold him, pet his damp hair, and hum to him. He doesn’t particularly know how to hold a tune, but the rumblings and vibrations of his voice are soothing to Krem, and so he hums. It’s a fierce juxtaposition to the humming he’d been doing earlier, so much more intentional and meaningful. Maker as his witness, he’d hum for the rest of his life if it would spare Krem these nightmares.

 

“They’re dead,” he finally whispers, after minutes pass and Krem’s sobs have diminished into hiccuping gasps. “They can’t hurt you. Nobody will ever hurt you again. You won’t so much as get stung by a bee while I’m around.”

 

At one point Krem realizes his fingernails have been embedded in the Bull's shoulders for Maker knows how long, which the Qunari said nothing about, of course. He relaxes his fingers, raising his head to see the marks he's left behind with an upset noise, rubbing his thumb against the stinging grooves.

 

"I didn't want you to see," he murmurs what the Bull must know already, sounding exhausted, overwrought, " _Fasta vass_ , I would spit on them again, I am _tired_ of being afraid. I can't train my way out of bloody nightmares."

 

“There’s no shame in letting me see you when you are low,” Bull says gently. “I would hope you would be there for me while I was low. Is... this the reason you never wanted to sleep in my tent? You’re embarrassed of your nightmares?”

 

Krem sighs. "No one wants to be around this every night– _I_ don't want to be around this," he says, and lifts himself up, with a strained, miserable laugh, "I've soaked through the bed– I can't even... we have a _mission_ tomorrow."

 

“You’re wrong,” Bull says gently. “I want to be around this every night. I want to be here when you wake up in a fit so I can calm you down. I can’t bear the thought of sleeping soundly through the night in my own tent while you’re crying in yours. I need to protect you, I _need_ to, Krem.”

 

Krem looked up, searching the Bull's face through red, puffy eyes. Maker help him, but the Bull means it– he never doesn't, certainly not with Krem. His eyes well up with tears again and he hugs around the Bull, as close as he can get to his fingers touching, breathing in and out deeply.

 

He doesn't know what he did to deserve this man, or what happened to make the Bull this earnestly devoted.

 

"I hope you like sleep deprivation," he says with a quiet, shaky laugh.

 

Bull buries his nose in Krem’s hair and laughs, “It’s my favorite.”


	8. Chapter 8

Krem isn’t particularly well-rested, but he is, at the very least, in good company when he wakes up. Bull lovingly laces up his binder for him, tighter than Krem could ever manage from his awkward front angle, and he admires just how flat Bull made him in the little mirror hanging over the vanity table in their room before getting dressed.

 

They meet the others at the designated spot. The bunch of them are looking surly and tired (save for Ward, who just always looks like that) but ready to move out. Good mornings are muttered all about as they move together in one sluggish pack towards Tremaine Estate.

 

Perseus is looking as though he hasn’t even slept all night, as he bids the Chargers good morning and shakes Krem’s hand again. He looks as if he’s two cross words away from opting out of the entire mission, backed into a corner as he is.

 

“I hope you all slept well,” Perseus says. His tone is meant to sound severe, but it’s clipped with barely contained, irritated exhaustion.

 

"Rested and ready for the journey ahead," Krem assures him with a kind smile. Sleep or no sleep, the desire to not blow his first and likely only opportunity to be at the head of a mission keeps him focused. "I will not let you down," he tells him more seriously, and that much, especially after the sort of night he had, he means with all honesty.

 

Perseus looks like he wants to say something like “I trust you” but he can’t quite get the words out. Instead, he clears his throat and beckons for Matilda to bring Celia.

 

The girl comes forward wearing a plain, stark white dress, and a bleeding red velvet half-cape around her shoulders, her black hair tucked back into the hood. Bull balks at the sight of it and temporarily forgets that he’s supposed to be the trustworthy human leader’s brainless and harmless Qunari pet.

 

“You _must_ be joking,” he blurts, pushing past Ward to stand at the front and look down at the little girl. “You’ve dressed her in white and red? We’re going to be passing through earthy mountains, where everything is grey and brown and green, with this dress you’d just as well hang a sign around her neck that says ‘Hey, Bandits, come steal me for an enormous ransom because my daddy has money.’”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Perseus gasps, both offended and frightened, and he grips his daughter’s shoulders possessively.

 

“ _Bull_ ,” Ward speaks up first, slamming a hand across his chest to push him back again. This may be his only opportunity to lord power over his leader, and he intends to take full advantage of it. “Enough. Don’t frighten the poor people unnecessarily. We’re not going to have her walking at the head of the group, for Maker’s sake.”

 

As much as Krem agrees with the Bull, Perseus looks like he's this close to calling everything off. When the nobleman looks to him, he turns to the Bull, indicating with his chin to step back. That silent instruction, and the fact that the Bull obeys, is likely what calms Perseus down enough to begin to say his goodbyes.

 

Of course, the winning impression the Bull made yesterday is probably the reason Celia is the one to pull away with a last goodbye, excited to begin the adventure, where yesterday she had been frightened. 1,000 gold pieces richer and the burden of a wealthy man's most precious treasure under their protection, they set off for Shalen, already packed up and ready to go.

 

For the first mile of the trip, Celia insists on walking. The bottom of her white skirt gets dirty from the road, and she complains that her mother will blame her for the dirt, instead of her father for dressing her in white when she has a distance of nearly fifty miles to cross with the Chargers. After that, though, her legs get tired, and she sits on the cart pulled by Stitches, complimenting her braids as she climbs on.

 

She teaches the men a couple songs (or rather, just sings at them, very few of them make a solid attempt to learn her songs) and she listens with rapt attention to watered-down versions of some of Bull’s most daring adventures. She talks about how Once She’s A Noblewoman (a phrase she uses so many times it nearly loses its meaning) she’ll marry a very rich man and make sure that he hires the Chargers, or whoever is left by then, and pay them a large sum of money for doing such a good job with her when she was a child.

 

She takes a particular shining to Krem, which is not surprising to anybody. He’s sharp enough to exude confidence and safety, but just soft enough to be trustworthy to a little girl. He’s a comfortable middle ground between masculine and feminine that she doesn’t even comprehend logically, but she knows that he makes her feel very safe and very taken care of.

 

When she’s not on the wagon pulled by Stitches amongst all of her supplies, she’s walking at Krem’s side. He shows her how to tie up her skirt so she doesn’t trip on it (which shows her under leggings from the knees down, god forbid, but even that is exciting to her) and she picks daisies to tuck into any part of his armor she thinks would improve with the touch of a flower until he looks as much like a walking bouquet as a man, and holds his hand much of the time otherwise.

 

The other men take to teasing Krem about his future wife, and while Celia insists that she’s only going to marry a nobleman, she says that if Krem is looking for work by the time she’s married, she’ll let him be the captain of the guard in her estate.

 

"Aren't I wearing enough flowers?" Krem asks amusedly that evening. He'd taken some of the bulkier parts of his armor off, which meant taking off a lot of his decorations, so Celia has gone right back to work to rectify the situation now that they are both sitting by the fire and watching the rest of the company finish setting up camp. It's a good thing the girl knows little about how a group of mercenaries is supposed to function, or she might question why the supposed captain is occupied solely with entertaining her, rather than giving orders like Ward is.

 

"Not even close," Celia tells him unsympathetically, and links together the last flower in her chain to place on top of Krem's head, where there are already three crowns, before starting another.

 

"If you weren't destined to be a noblewoman, I imagine you'd make a decent apothecary," Krem says with a snort, "I don't think I've even seen Stitches gather this many flowers in a day." The Bull approaches and bursts into laughter at the sight of him moments later, and Krem gives him a long suffering look over Celia's head and plucks a flower off his shoulder to hold out to him.

 

“A flower, for me, messer?” Bull gasps gaily, and accepts the half-wilted plume. “Are you certain you can spare one? If you remove one she might notice and replace it with a hundred more.”

 

Celia returns with an armful of daisies, and gasps at Bull like she’s seeing him for the first time. “Your horns!” she says. “Can I make daisy chains for your horns?”

 

Bull chuckles and lowers himself to the ground in front of the log Krem is seated on with a smile. “I’d be honored, my lady.”

 

Krem keeps Celia steady as she stands up on the log to reach the Bull's horns at first, until she decides it would be more efficient to concentrate on producing the chains, while Krem is given the honored task of decorating.

 

They pick flowers off of each other in the Bull's tent later that night, half asleep and in the dark, and when Krem wakes up with a start, the Bull wakes up and plucks the crushed petals they missed by the light of a candle as Krem calms back down. On many a night, Krem would have given up and started his day, but in the Bull's arms, he’s able to settle back down for another hour of sleep.

 

The only road through to Shalen follows along the side of a cliff, with another ledge, thick with trees, overlooking. It's no wonder it's a favored spot for bandits, and when Celia gets antsy and wants to walk, Krem finds himself tucking her close to his side each time the road takes a turn and they can't see what's up ahead.

 

At one point the road gets so narrow that they have to walk single file, and Stitches can’t even pull her cart. Bull carries it over his head, while Krem piggy-backs Celia, who learns very abruptly that she is afraid of heights, and buries her face in the back of his neck, her hood draped over her face. She doesn’t emerge from hiding again until he reassures her that there’s room for her to move around, and even then he has her walk on the inside of the path.

 

“I don’t like this,” Skinner mutters from the back, her eyes darting all around to take in the scenery. Every shadow looks distinctly like a bandit out of the corner of her eyes.

 

“We’re a big party,” Bull mutters, but even his hand is back over his shoulder, gripping the handle of his axe. “Nobody’s going to fuck with us.”

 

“Sure, if we were on solid ground,” Rooker grips his sword on his hip. “But we’re in one skinny pass. Easy to knock us off and collect our shit at the bottom.”

 

Remarkably, they make it through the pass in one piece. This, as it turns out, is exactly what the bandits planned. Parties passing through the gorge always put their guard up around their ears, but as soon as they got through the other side without a hitch, that guard would drop like a cheap set of curtains, and for one shining moment their ambush was always wickedly effective.

 

Their pack druffalo panics and nearly overturns Stitches’ cart, Skinner takes an arrow to the thigh, in a split second it’s absolute pandemonium. Axes clash and Bull bellows, swords are drawn and Celia screams and screams.

 

“Get her to the woods!” Bull roars to Krem as the man swings Celia up onto his back. “We’ll catch up to you!”

 

Krem doesn't reply, but breaks off into a run. He thinks he can hear someone pursuing him, but Celia is still whimpering in his ear.

 

"Celia, we have to be–" an arrow hits a tree in front of them, startling another shriek out of the girl, and Krem makes a hairpin turn, dashing into the thick of the woods. Thankfully, Celia only grips around Krem tight now, terrified into silence. They run until he hasn't heard anything for long minutes, and he ducks behind a large tree.

 

"We'll wait right here, until the Chargers give a signal," he tells her quietly, unsheathing his sword.

 

“My father said this wouldn’t happen,” Celia sobs quietly, shaking her head back and forth. “He promised, he said this wouldn’t happen, is this because of my dress, like Mr. Bull said? Is this my fault?”

 

"No– maybe," Krem whispers, "But that doesn't matter, because we're going to be alright. I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

 

He hears the crunch of a leaf and pulls Celia closer to him, putting his hand over her mouth. For long moments, they scarcely breathe, until finally Krem slowly, slowly turns to look and see if he can spot a pursuer.

 

The arrow that whizzes through the air cuts through the side of Krem’s bicep like a knife, but doesn’t stick in him. Celia screams, and immediately begins to run, her skirt tearing as branches scratch at her face, leaving Krem behind to try and fight an archer with a sword.

 

“Celia!” he cries out to her, ducking another arrow. “Celia, come back!”

 

The archer turns, cape fluttering, as he darts into the woods after the girl. Disoriented, her hood flapping down over her eyes, hair getting caught and ripped on branches, terrified out of her mind, she has no idea she’s turned back in a circle, in the direction of the cliffs.

 

Krem curses and runs after the both of them, but has to duck as the archer turns to fire another arrow at him. Just then, they hear a shriek, and in the instant the archer looks toward where the scream came from, Krem runs at him, gutting him, but not without getting cut in his side from– something– a dagger, he determines as he shoves the man over and yanks out his sword, running off toward the cliffs.

 

"Celia!" he calls, his stomach sinking when he sees only the edge of the cliff.

 

"Help!" a sobbing voice calls, and he sheaths his sword, stumbling over to the edge.

 

Gripping a root with all her might, her cloak and skirts fluttering in the open space beneath her, Celia looks up at him with tearful eyes.

 

“Look out!” she squeals.

 

It all happens so fast. A second rogue must have come up behind him and drives a dagger into his side where the armor leaves just an inch gap. He stumbles forward, seizing up, and barely has time to thrust a hand out and grab the thick root beside Celia. His body halts abruptly and pain shoots through him like a lance, just as Celia’s hand slips from the root.

 

He catches her on instinct alone, one hand holding the root, the other supporting the terrified girl, while blood seeps down his side and leg. Vision blurred with pain, he looks up into the face of Ward, standing over the edge of the cliff, wiping blood from his dagger.

 

“This is precarious,” he says casually as he sheaths the dagger in his belt. Krem can see the hand of a person hanging over the cliff’s edge near Ward’s feet, and it’s impossible to tell if that’s the bandit who stabbed Krem, killed by Ward, or if it’s the same bandit as before, and Ward stabbed Krem himself.

 

"Rope," Krem gets out through gritted teeth. His side feels like it is on fire, blood pouring out of him with the strain, and his arm is aching with the effort of holding on. "Please, Ward," he gasps. He has no choice but to hope.

 

“Mmm,” Ward makes a noise like he’s considering it. “Why should I? We’ve already got a thousand pieces of gold. Not like Tremaine can just take it back because our _fearless leader_ took a tumble off a cliff with his daughter.”

 

He squats down at the edge of the cliff, dislodging loose dirt, which falls in Krem’s eyes. He splutters and shakes his head, but can’t wipe it away. It obscures his vision, and tears roll down his face as Ward sneers down at him.

 

“You’ll be revered as a hero, won’t you?” he lies, smiling maliciously. “Krem, the great and noble, sacrificed himself in his attempt to save the girl. The Chargers will talk about you long after I’ve taken command.”

 

“Please, sir!” Celia wails. “Don’t let us fall!”

 

“Oh don’t be so pathetic,” Ward spits, standing upright again. “The least you can do is die with dignity. Here, for your troubles,” he opens his flask and pours the water over Krem’s face, and then over his hand, so the root is slippery and his fingers freezing. “At least now you can die with your eyes open.”

 

He turns and walks away to the sounds of Krem’s agonized wheezes and Celia’s screams of terror, a medley of music that carries him back to the group long after he ceased to be able to hear them.

At first, Ward didn’t need to say anything. Everyone was in such a hurry to get away, they didn’t even notice Krem and the girl were missing. Everybody was so single-mindedly driven on escape (they’d been woefully outnumbered by the bandits) everybody figured someone else had the girl.

 

It wasn’t until several miles later that they’ve stopped, much too far to turn back now, and try to regroup. Bull notices first, which is no great surprise.

 

“Krem?” he glances over the heads of his Chargers, but sees no swatch of red hair. His heart turns to ice. “Krem, where is Krem?”

 

The others silence at the urgency in Bull’s voice and look among their ranks. The redhead is nowhere to be seen, and for that matter, neither is the girl. Bull stares in horror down the path they came from.

 

"Krem and the girl fell," Ward says with a sigh of irritation, but no sympathy, stepping into view, "I tried to pull them up from the ledge they were hanging from, but they slipped before I could catch them. I knew leaving her under the care of that inexperienced fool was a terrible idea– he couldn't hold off a single pursuer, and ran off in a blind panic, straight toward the cliff." Ward shakes his head and carries on sarcastically, "Dying during your own mission– a mark of a useful addition to The Chargers, in my estimation."

 

“What?!” Bull roars. In that instant, it’s as if the entire world fades away, and he’s left hanging in the middle of some dark abyss. His knees feel weak and his stomach clenches. “Why are you only saying this now? We left that cliff hours ago! We have to turn around and go back--”

 

“For what?” Ward interrupts irritably. “You’d expend a lot of energy and resources to get to the bottom of that ravine for a couple of corpses. Don’t you think her mother deserves the news that her daughter won’t ever arrive?”

 

“I won’t leave him--” Bull’s voice is choked. He’s lost men before, he’s lost allies, he’s lost friends, but he’s never lost anybody like this. He’s never been in love before, and he was ill prepared for the feelings washing over him now. He feels weak, weaker than he’s ever been in his life. His legs give out and he sinks to the forest floor without shame, crunching leaves helplessly in his fists. If he’d kept better watch over Krem...

 

“Krem is dead?” whispers float through the chargers. Stitches gives a wail and Skinner hugs her tight as they mourn together. Hats are removed, eyes and prayers turned skyward.

 

Ward is completely ignored.


	9. Chapter 9

Watching Ward walk off and condemn both him and Celia to die was almost more painful than the stitch in his side. His muscles ache, the pain is so enormous his entire body is begging for him to let go, to give up, falling to his death would be less painful than this. And if he were by himself, he might have given in to the desperate dying pleading of his own body. But he has a girl dangling from his other hand, a girl who has barely begun to live, a girl who has done absolutely nothing to deserve this cruel death sentence from Ward.

 

"Celia," Krem moans through gritted teeth, "Celia, you– ngh– have to climb over me."

 

"I can't!" she wails.

 

"You can," Krem replies, with all the kindness he can muster as he prays for the well of his strength to not run dry. He can feel his grip slipping. "Celia, this is the only way– I believe in you." If his other arm were freed up, he could grab for another root, but even if he can't, there's still a chance for Celia.

 

Celia trembling and wet, pulls with all her might. Her thin arms tremble as Krem helps swing her to the cliff edge, where she grips another root, but her hand slips a moment later and she shrieks out a desperate sob.

 

“This is my fault!” she wails, beating her free hand against her thigh.

 

“Celia,” Krem’s voice is tight as he reclaims her attention. “Again.”

 

He swings her, and this time she takes hold of the cliffside, and with one hand and foot in the rocks, and the other on Krem, she slowly makes her way up his body. As soon as her hand leaves his, he grips the root with both hands and redistributes his weight, which only makes his side flare up worse, but it does buy him a little time.

 

She tumbles over the edge of the cliff, sobbing and shaking, and looks around. There’s nobody in sight, the Chargers have already left, she can’t even hear the fighting anymore.

 

“They’re gone, Krem,” she whimpers down to the hanging man. “H- How can I help you up?”

 

Krem's entire world is narrowing to keeping hold of the roots, and the pain, but he still feel some distant relief, seeing Celia make it to safety. Maker, all he can think about is how she is going to watch him fall, and how much it's going to ruin her. And Bull... Even if there were rope or a branch, there's no way for her to get enough leverage to keep him from pulling her straight back over the edge.

 

He closes his eyes, air hissing in and out harshly through his teeth, and when he opens his eyes, he reaches for a crack in the cliff above him, screaming out in agony when he finds purchase. Every bit of progress is unbearably painful, but he can't give up, he can't.

 

He kicks with his foot, finding a foothold and pushing up, just as root he has been hanging onto rips and he has to latch onto the crack with both hands. From there, he pushes up again, finds another foothold, and Celia grabs at his arm, yanking him with all her might as he shouts out again. his face is in the dirt when they finally pull him up, and gasping for air sucks up dust into his lungs and makes him cough painfully.

 

But he's made it. They both have.

 

Celia backs away from the cliff edge on her backside, streaking her torn dress with mud, shaking her head in horror as she sees the blood on his side.

 

“You’re hurt,” she gasps out. “Did that man hurt you? Did he hurt you because of me? Oh, I should have just stayed at home, I don’t want to be a noblewoman this badly, this is all my fault, I’m so sorry, this is my fault--”

 

"No," Krem gasps, rolling over onto his back, putting a hand over his side, "None of this is– your fault... I've still got you, we've just gotta– find the chief– find the Chargers, I mean." He sits up with a groan, reaching up to wipe some of the tears from Celia's face, although it leaves dirty streaks instead.

 

"I'm going to need your cloak, Celia," he says, pulling out a knife. Shaking and blubbering, she takes it off, and he tears as long a strip as he can manage, and pushes up his shirt partway, winding it around his waist, and then tucking another folded up strip beneath it, to put as much pressure on the puncture as he can.

 

"We're going to cut through the woods, and continue on South to Shalen," he tells her, when he's gotten to his feet and determined that he is able to do so, hopefully long enough to catch up to the Chargers. Everything hurts, and he's dizzy, but he'll have to manage. Ward must have told them they were dead, but he doesn't say that to Celia.

 

"I'm not going to be able to carry you, but I know you'll be brave for me, right?"

 

Celia nods her head, and grips his hand so tightly it hurts her fingers. She lost one of her slippers in the tumble over the cliff, and periodically one foot gets so cold that she has to switch it out to let it rest in her shoe while the other slowly freezes until she has to repeat. Krem stumbles and shambles, pausing against trees frequently. He’s lost a lot of blood, but the puncture, it seems, didn’t hit anything extremely important, because a couple hours later he’s still not dead.

 

Celia has to keep pulling him along sometimes when he falls to his knees or lingers too long against a tree. She’s probably the only thing keeping him alive, along with his desire to protect her, at this point.

 

When they reach the top of a hill, early that evening, and see the Charger's camp, Krem nearly falls to his knees again, but Celia, little as she is, holds him up. His legs feel heavier than ever, the entire left side of his body aching now that their destination is in sight, but with Celia's hand in his, Krem makes it down the hill without incident.

 

It's eerily quiet, only the crackling of a fire in the middle of the camp audible, where there would normally be clunks and clangs of metal, as well as joyous song and laughter, even after the toughest of days. There are no rowdy sounds of life coming from The Bull's Chargers now.

 

"Krem?" Celia says softly, tucking up close to his side as he limps past the first of the tents, but Krem only squeezes her hand and carries on, his very consciousness narrowed on locating the Bull.

 

So narrowed, that he doesn't doesn't notice Ward's approach until he hears Celia's squeak of terror and feels his hands wrapped around his neck.

 

"What are you _doing_ here!?" Ward hisses.

 

Celia immediately moves to run, but Ward catches her by the hair and yanks her back, clapping his hand over her mouth before she can even scream. He curls her into his side, his left arm weighing roughly the same amount as Celia altogether, and he pins her there easily even as she struggles and screams against his palm and beats him with her tiny fists.

 

Krem hears her whimper his name from behind Ward’s palm as he’s leveled to the ground, pain splitting up his side like a bolt of lightning as Ward drops onto Krem’s waist, effectively pinning him down and stabbing pain through his injured side.

 

“I _killed_ you,” Ward snarls quietly, still pinning Celia to his side by her mouth, his other hand closed tightly around Krem’s throat. Celia’s nose has been covered by one of Ward’s fingers and she’s stopped screaming, redirecting her struggles into just getting the finger off so she can breathe. Her breath is being stolen just as quickly as Krem’s.

 

"Ghhck–"

 

Krem claws at Ward's hand, his vision going dark around the edges, the only sounds coming from him strangled and inarticulate. The Bull is right there, he's right there, and he isn't even going to be able to make it to him.

 

" _Kaffas!"_

 

Ward feels a sharp pain as Celia bites down on his hand and strikes her to the side, but not before she lets out a high pitched scream.

 

The sound resonates through the pitch dark night air like an arrow, and the Chargers, sitting silently around a fire in the center of camp not a quarter of a mile away, bolt upright like dogs.

 

“Did you hear that?” Stitches says, already on her feet and grabbing up her bow and arrow while Skinner lunges for her daggers and Rooker swings his maul up onto his shoulder.

 

Bull can barely muster the energy to lift his head.

 

“You _brat_ ,” Ward hisses, striking Celia across the face so hard she crumples to the ground, and relocating a knee into the center of her back in the dust, allocating all his strength into choking Krem with both hands.

 

From where Celia is forced to the ground, she can see Krem's hands pushing up against Ward's, but quickly losing strength.

 

"Please– please stop! MR. BULL, HELP!" Celia sobs.

 

The Chargers are in full tilt, now. Nobody questions why Ward is crouched on top of Krem, choking the life out of him. Nobody questions why Krem is even alive, or here. Stitches takes a knee and nocks an arrow, and it sails through the air, whistling its way directly into the center of Ward’s back. He roars and topples off of Krem’s lap, his full weight on Celia for one agonizing second before he crumples to the ground on the opposite side of the girl.

 

Skinner sprints forward and hauls the girl into her arms unceremoniously by her dress and runs in the opposite direction to put as much distance between her and Ward as possible.

 

A full circle of weapons point ominously down at Ward as the Chargers descend like dogs, while Rooker helps Krem to a sitting position with no small amount of wheezing and pained shouts.

 

“Stop,” Bull’s voice echoes dark and clear through the night air as he watched weapons raise over Ward to deliver blows that have been a long time coming. The circle parts and Bull stalks forward, glancing over to Krem for just one moment before looming over Ward with fire burning in his eyes. “Don’t kill him. Tie him up. Put him in my tent. I want no less than five guards on him until I get there. I have to see to Krem.”

 

He doesn’t know how Krem survived, but he doesn’t waste energy on questioning or speculating. Krem will tell him himself once he’s able. Bull listens to the musical sounds of Ward’s begging and pleading and rationalizing as he’s dragged away bleeding and terrified. Bull’s strength carries him only as far as Krem’s side, when his knees give out and he wraps around Krem in a hug that he has no doubts is hurting him, but the pained desperation of the last several hours are coming out of Bull now in one long moan of agonized grief as he squeezes Krem to his chest.

 

Even bleeding and exhausted and half choked to death, Krem puts his arms as far around the Bull as he can reach, crying weakly into his lover's ear.

 

"Bull... Bull... _Bull_..."

 

His breath is coming out in tight little wheezes that don't improve when the Bull realizes and gives him some space, his skin ashen and clammy. Bull scoops him up in his arms, loving and careful, and guides him to Stitches’ tent, where Celia is already receiving a cooling salve for the forming bruise on her cheek.

 

“He’s hurt, bad,” Bull rumbles as he lays Krem out like a dying man. “Can you get him through the night?”

 

“I can try,” Stitches’ voice is tight with tears as she leans out over him to check his pulse and give him a long drink of water. Somehow, Bull feels, if they can just get him through the night, he’ll be okay. If they can get him to survive this single, memorial night, everything will work out.

 

“Don’t just try,” Bull pleads with her, and she nods as she takes on the very grave task of mending Krem’s life with her own at stake, the threat of the Charger’s combined grief looming overhead like a blackened and predatory bird.


	10. Chapter 10

Not a single person sleeps that night, save perhaps Celia, in short bursts, and Krem, who passes out in exhaustion, hopefully temporarily. Not any of the Chargers, who keep a tense vigil at the fire, everyone wound tight like a bow in that agonizing place between hope and grief. Not Ward, who despairs his fate. Not Stitches, or their mage, Carlisle, who work through the night on mending Krem's wounds.

 

Certainly not the Bull.

 

Even with the cleverest of potions, and all the spells to speed up the healing process, blood loss is blood loss, and Krem remains unconscious until late the next morning. His eyes shut tight, everything aching, and he raises his hands to feel where his side is bandaged.

 

"Celia?" he asks very softly, his eyes fluttering open, "Bull?"

 

Bull, who had been nodding off at Krem’s side, snaps up to attention so quickly his horns snag the cloth and tear it. “Krem!” he shouts much too loudly. “I wasn’t asleep, I was not asleep, I was... guarding the insides of my eyelids.”

 

He reaches down to press the back of his hand to Krem’s forehead in a gesture he’s seen humans do to sick and hurt humans, but has no idea what it means. He assumes it’s a comfort thing. “How are you feeling? You almost didn’t make it.”

 

"Certainly not," Krem agrees with a chuckle that's more a soft puff of air than anything else. His head is pounding, his eyelids heavy, but the warm pressure of the Bull's hand feels nice. "A bit like I got cut up and took a walk after," he answers, closing his eyes with a wince. He puts his hand to his throat, where ugly bruises have formed.

 

“Ward’s not dead,” Bull answers the question before Krem can even ask about the man’s wellbeing. “I have plans for him, and they don’t involve death, as much as I would love to cleave him in half, I think that would be letting him off easy. I’m going to torture him, and not in the way that would make a martyr out of him. Physical pain he can withstand, but I am going to _humiliate_ him to his core. I can’t believe I didn’t see this coming earlier, Krem, I’m so sorry. I wanted so badly to trust him. I wanted... I wanted to be the one good thing that ever happened to him. I was so blind by my own pride and stupid, _bull-headed_ desire to be good for him. I thought he deserved some good. I was so wrong.”

 

Krem opens his eyes, placing his hand in Bull's much larger one, thumb delineating patterns in his skin. For all the times he's imagined terrible things happening to Ward, it wearies him to think about what the Bull is going to do. Still, he says nothing in regards to that. Ward barely deserves to be thought on.

 

"He didn't get what he wanted," Krem says, instead, "And you... you're good for the lot of us, chief. You're good for me."

 

“You’re good for them too,” Bull whispers fiercely. “You should have seen them, mourning when they thought they’d lost you. It was like... like losing a leader. Krem, I’m down a second in command now, and the position falls to you. It should always have belonged to you, you were a better man on day one than all of Ward’s good days combined. I won’t take no for an answer, and don’t give me any vain thank-you-very-much crap. You’re Lieutenant Aclassi whether you like it or not. And Lieutenants stay by the Commander’s side, Maker damn it. No more jogging off cliffs.”

 

"I–" _I don't know what to say,_ is what rests on Krem's lips, unspoken, because he knows the Bull would probably only snort and ruffle his hair. "I'll steer clear of anything steeper than an anthill for the next few days, at least," Krem assures him instead, and adds, "Commander."

 

“Don’t you dare,” Bull gives a suffering laugh. “If you stop calling me chief I’ll hang you by your toes and march you through Shalen upside down.”

 

Krem gets a glint in his tired eyes, pushes himself up slightly with a groan, and juts his chin up. "Commander," he challenges, barely keeping the grin off his face.

 

“I’ll kick your ass as soon as it’s well, I swear,” Bull growls and leans in to kiss Krem with all the fierce possession of a man who nearly lost the one person he loves. “You’re upgraded to first class tent, by the way. No more suffering in the dark every night with your own nightmares, these wounds better not keep you from my bed. My door is always going to be open.”

 

Although he laughs through the kiss, Krem’s eyes grow damp and shiny as the Bull continues in earnest, his heart tight in his chest.

 

He can't help but point out with a wet laugh, "We live in tents, chief."

 

Bull moans with laughter and rests his forehead against Krem’s “Sure we do, but my _flap’s_ open sounds a bit gross, don’t you think?”

 

Krem groans, drawn out and pained, thumping his fist against the Bull's chest as the Qunari snickers and snickers, but it isn't long before he joins him, laughing more in relief than anything else, until his sides ache like fire.

 

"Krem? Is he awake?" they heard a voice call out from outside the tent, followed by several others, followed by footsteps. "Boss, is Krem up?!"

 

“That’ll be _Lieutenant_ Krem, to you lot,” Bull says as he holds Krem to his side to steady him and helps him stand up out of the tent.

 

The gang rush of the embrace that wraps around Krem hurts like a knife, but he wouldn’t push them away for anything in the entire world as tears roll down his face and he’s kissed from every possible angle on every inch of skin.

 

"Wasn't– missed at all– I see," Krem gasps breathlessly, giggling and wiping tears away with his palms. It's only when everyone begins to pull back that he becomes away of the lack of familiar pressure around his chest and he crosses his arms, his eyes wide. Standing rigidly, he stares down at the ground.

 

But it’s too late. There’s a moment of silence in the group and Stitches gasps in horror as she realizes she’d let him leave the tent without his binder in her eagerness to see him.

 

It’s Rudder who speaks up with a quiet and confused, “You’re a woman?” It’s not accusatory, after all, there are many other women in the Chargers, but it is confusion nonetheless.

 

Bull immediately steps in, nearly blinded with panic in Krem’s favor, and grips his shoulder, ready to come to his defense if he’s needed, but prepared to let Krem speak first if he wants to respond himself.

 

"No."

 

Krem stands up straight as he can, looks them all in the eye as if he's daring anyone to say otherwise, even while he struggles to stay on his feet, anemic as he is, and his stomach churns with sickening dread. It could be over, just this quickly. He wants to be the Lieutenant the Bull has just made him, but if they cannot respect him, if he cannot even manage to be treated as he is, rather than what is beneath his clothes–

 

"I'm not," Krem says, "Anyone have anything to say to that?"

 

A few eyes dart down to Krem’s chest for confirmation of the contradicting information, before looking back up to see the conviction in his eyes.

 

“None at all, sir,” Rooker speaks up first after the long silence of confusion. This snaps the rest of the Chargers out of their trance. Heels snap together and hands snap to foreheads as Rooker is echoed through the rest of the Chargers. Hands touch Krem’s arms and somebody takes his hand, and Bull squeezes his shoulder so tight it might break, his chest bursting with pride for his men.

 

Krem stares in open amazement, his knees threatening to buckle, but the Bull's hands on him keeps him just strong enough to keep steady, and he knows he's there the moment he falters. More than any time before now, he feels at home, and he feels pride. He'll do his damnedest for this company.

 

"Good to hear," he says simply, inhaling sharp through his nose to fight the pricking in his eyes.

 

"Better let the Lieutenant get some rest now," the Bull rumbles behind him, and helps Krem back into the tent to a chorus of "sir"s. Krem turns around unsteadily, looping his arms around the Bull's neck even though it hurts, and buries his face in his chest. He's trembling with feeling, speechless, humbled.

 

“You did good, lad,” Bull whispers into his hair. “You did so good.”

 

He lays Krem back down in the tent and fusses over him a bit, touching his bruises and checking his bandages for blood, tucking him under blankets and making sure the fur pillow under his head is fluffed just so, before he excuses himself to to see Ward, as he has not left Krem’s side all night.

 

Moments after he left, Celia is let into the tent by an attentive Stitches, who warns the girl not to lay on Krem’s chest if she wants to hug him. Celia flings her arms around Krem’s shoulders, half of her face darkened and ugly with a bruise, and she cries into his hair like only a child can, full-bodied and terrorized.

 

“Oh, Mr. Krem,” she sobs. “I’m so sorry you got stabbed because of me. I’ll make sure my mummy pays you extra, it’s not fair what that mean Mr. Ward did to you.”

 

"Shh," Krem hushes softly, stroking her dark hair. After all that exertion, it's hard to keep his eyes open, but he feels warm with affection for the girl, "Only one whose fault it was was Ward, alright? And you." Krem lifts her face up, wiping away her tears, gentle as he can around her bruised skin, "You did exactly what you needed to do to get us help. You saved my life, you know... I think it's only appropriate to make you an honorary Charger. Would you like that?"

 

She sits up straight and claps both hands over her mouth. “Really? I can be a Charger too? I don’t have a sword or anything, though. Oh, can I be your spy? Do you have a spy? I’d be a very good spy! I already spy on daddy, and nobody knows because I’m only little.”

 

Krem grins, utterly charmed. "It just so happens we have an open position," he tells her quietly, like it's delicate information, "I think you'll do nicely."

 

"Alright, honorary spy," Stitches says, coming up behind Celia and putting her hand on her shoulder, "I think it's time to let the Lieutenant rest."

 

"You weren't supposed to be listening in," Krem complains simultaneous to Celia's "Aw!", and tells the girl, "Stitches is a pretty good spy, as well."

 

Suddenly, there’s an ear-piercing wail that rings across the camp, and everybody’s guard goes up around their eyeballs. Celia shrieks in terror and clings to Stitches’ side. The elf quietly bades Celia to stay put as she ducks out of the tent, and Celia curls up by Krem’s neck, throwing her cloak over the both of them in a child’s attempt to hide, as she wraps her arms about his head.

 

The healer returns a moment later as a second, equally piercing cry rattles the air. “It’s ahh, coming from Bull’s tent,” she says, her tone tight and cautious. “Come, Celia, would you like to go on a walk with me?”

 

“What about Krem?” Celia says, peering out from under the cloak, but she ducks back behind a moment later when a third, agonized cry splits the morning.

 

“Carlisle will stay with him,” Stitches offers her hand. Celia leaves her cloak with Krem, for comfort, she says, before taking Stitches’ hand and rushing well away from the camp with her.

 

By the time the screams finally die down, Krem has fallen asleep again. He'd been trying to bear some degree of witness to it, from a distance, and more than that, he had been trying to wait for the Bull's return, but not even those agonized sounds could keep his worn body from rest for long.

 

Incredibly, he wakes up the moment the Bull returns, pushing himself to a sitting position before he was barely awake enough to tell up from down, practically.

 

"MmBull?" he asks blearily, blinking in the dark.

 

“Shh,” The Bull gently pushes him back down, and although the tent is too small, he curls up on his side beside Krem, cuddles up under the too-small blankets, and hums both himself and Krem back to sleep.

 

===

 

The next morning, camp is packed up, and Krem is set up on Stitches’ cart, wrapped up to his chest in furs, so he doesn’t have to do any walking. Ideally they would just stay in one place to let their wounded heal, but they have to deliver Celia. She’s been through enough, she deserves to be with her mother as quickly as they can get her there.

 

When everyone gets a first glance at Ward after the screams of the previous morning, shocked whispers float through camp. With cloth wrapped around his head from the eyes up, effectively blinding him, and blood-dark cloth wound around both hands in cottony bulbs, he has chains attached both from his wrists to his belt, and looped around his neck.

 

He stumbles blindly behind Bull, pulled along like an unruly pet. He trips and falls frequently on their path, but Bull isn’t kind or merciful and tugs on his chain until he staggers back to his feet and trembles onward. Celia is terrified by the sight of him and stays at Krem’s side near the back, holding his hand much of the rest of the way there.

 

Coming through Shalen is quite the procession. It’s even fancier than where they came from, and the dirty, bloodsoaked band of mercenaries couldn’t possibly stick out worse if they had walked directly through the front doors of the Empress of Orlais. The cobblestones are painful for Krem in the cart, so he elects to walk the last short leg of the trip, against Bull’s wishes.

 

Celia’s mother is horrified by the sight of her bruised face and muddy torn dress, and when she sees Krem (still acting as leader) with his bandaged side and sallow, anemic face, she kisses him through tears, thanking him for risking his life to save her daughter. She insists they all stay the night in her estate, which is more than large enough to house the lot of them.

 

“I notice you have a great many servants,” Bull says to her, jerking Ward forward by his chains. “I offer one more. He doesn’t need to be paid, just locked inside. He put the bruise on your daughter’s face and tried to do away with both her and the Commander over the edge of a cliff. I’d say a lifetime of servitude is more than a worthy punishment for these crimes. He can’t do you or anyone else any harm. He’s got no fingers, after all.”

 

Celia's mother is at first horrified by the clear brutality presented to her, but she gets a hard look in her eyes when the Bull explains the man's crimes, nothing like what a proper noblewoman would normally look like, Krem guesses, but this isn't a circumstance for propriety. She accepts the "gift", sending a pair of guards away with Ward.

 

The beds are extraordinarily comfortable in the Tremaine estate, better than Krem could ever remember sleeping upon, and combined with a blessedly dreamless night, curled carefully in the chief's arms, he's feeling much more capable the next day. With considerable coin weighing down everyone's pockets, the Chargers take to the streets of Shalen. With payment like this, they can certainly afford to spend a few days sleeping in real beds and enjoying what the city has to offer.

 

Krem, himself, strolls through one of the fanciest marketplaces, he's ever seen, dazzled by all sorts of bits and bobs, but with no intention of actually purchasing anything. That is, until he comes upon the perfect thing. He has to discuss a couple modifications with the artisan, modifications that cost half as much extra, but it is worth every coin. He holds it to his chest all the way back to the inn and tavern he and the Bull, and many of the Chargers, are due to stay at.

 

"Starting without me, chief?" he asks, taking a seat beside the Bull and stealing a swig of his drink. "I've got a gift for you," he adds with a smile, "For later, though."

 

“What a coincidence, I’ve got a gift for you, as well,” Bull beams, winding an arm around Krem’s hip and pulling him against his side. “Also for later. I’m glad to see you up and walking around. How many potions have Stitches and Carlisle poured down your throat today?”

 

"Enough that it tastes like a healer's sanctum when I burp," Krem informs him solemnly, and then thumps his chest, demonstrating, "Yup. More elfroot."

 

"Enough that you ought not to be stealing the commander's drinks, if you don't want to be carried out of here," Stitches reminds him, kicking his chair. Krem groans, giving her a put upon look.

 

“This is hardly drink,” Bull says scornfully, looking down at the watered-down ale the tavern has to offer. “I asked them for whatever was strongest, and I think this might be piss, I’m not sure. It certainly isn’t alcohol. Might as well be water.” he shoves it at Krem with a smile. “I want you warm and blushing, drink up. I’ll carry you anywhere.”

 

"Only providin' me with the best," Krem says with a rolls of his eyes, and drinks up, making a face between swallows.

 

The night carries on with all the rowdy merriment that comes with a job well done and the promotion of a new, well-liked lieutenant. Krem quits before he is truly jelly legged, but only because he turns down another drink in favor of stumbling to his feet and tugging the Bull up by the horns, to a tavern full of whooping and hollering.

 

"Yeah, yeah," he says to them, his heavy lidded eyes on the Bull's face, "Upstairs, boss."

 

The Bull is grateful that Krem isn’t too drunk, only a little warm and giggly. He probably shouldn’t be riding a horse right now, but he’s not sodded or out of his mind by any means, he doesn’t even really need Bull’s support walking, save for tipping backwards once on the stairs.

 

Bull wraps around him as soon as they’re alone in their room, nuzzling into his neck and pawing at his armor, pulling at the many straps that holds it on until he can let it drop to the floor with loud clunks that herald their undressing.

 

“I love you,” he growls into Krem’s skin, brands him with it. His ferocity melts an instant later into dry, moaning sobs as he gathers Krem in his arms, and he doesn’t even make it to the bed in his grief, he just crumples to the floor against the foot board and takes Krem with him, until the boy is straddling his hips and pinned against his chest. “I promised I wouldn’t let anybody hurt you again, I failed. You could have died, you could have _died_ , I thought you _did_ die, I can’t lose you like that again, next time you die I’m dying with you.”

 

It isn't what he expected after dragging the Bull away with a promise in his eyes, but when passionate growling turns to guilt and grief stricken moans, Krem hums, consoling and wordless, and puts his arms around the Bull's neck, holding him close.

 

"I'm here, I'm here, Bull," he intones to him, with his face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, his voice vibrating his throat. The potions and spells have sped up his recovery significantly, but he can still feel a tender ache in his side and shoulder, a reminder of how close he had really been. "You don't get it– you _saved_ me," he says, squeezing him all the tighter, "I had to get Celia home, but I couldn't have been as strong for her if I wasn't striving to get back to you the whole time. You've been saving me since day one..."

 

Bull holds Krem so tightly it hurts both of them. They hold onto one another like they might never see one another again if they let go. Their embrace is powerful, the tight hold of two bodies trying to fuse into one inseparable being.

 

“Love sucks,” Bull moans into Krem’s shoulder, clinging to him like a drowning man. “Now I get why it’s frowned upon under the Qun, this is the worst thing I’ve ever felt in my life, love should be illegal everywhere, it’s terrible. It’s the worst, but I _need_ it, I’m _addicted_ to it, if I lose it-- if I lose you, it’ll kill me. I’ve never been so devoted to one person before, I’m scared. I never get scared.”

 

For long moments Krem can only nod, turning his face from side to side, breathing in the Bull's scent, sweat and spice and ale. He knows. He _knows_. He is right there with him, there's no amount of teasing song of lovebirds the Chargers could mockingly sing that would encompass how completely and utterly _fucked_ they are.

 

And it's the best thing he's ever felt.

 

"I do," he admits with a soft, vulnerable laugh, "I'm an expert at being scared, I imagine... Perhaps I'll teach you all my secrets. We'll... be scared together, and kick everyone's ass all the same."

 

Bull gives a breathless laugh, rubbing his face into Krem’s shoulder. “You’re a piece of shit and I wish I never met you,” he mutters with no conviction whatsoever. The ground is starting to hurt his bottom, so he collects Krem up in his arms and stands up, laying him out on the bed so he can learn over him to kiss him desperately, passionately. Krem holds on tight, gripping his horn and his pauldron, but Bull breaks the kiss before the boy can deepen it. “Not tonight,” he warns him, gently. “You’re still too hurt for that.”

 

Krem screws up his face and gives the Bull another tug, sure he isn't serious, but the Qunari holds fast, and Krem lets out an unselfconscious whine, courtesy of the alcohol flowing through his veins and dulling his sense of dignity.

 

"I'm _fine_ ," he assures him, turning about beneath the Bull in demonstration, "Can hardly feel a thing."

 

"Precisely," the Bull replies, and although there's a fond smile in his eye, there's no mistaking his resolve, "You've got enough potion and ale sloshing around in you, neither of us would know if you've injured yourself until tomorrow. Not gonna happen, Krem."

 

Krem holds the Bull's gaze for another moment, and then sighs, conceding. "Help me get all this off at least," he says.

 

Lovingly, Bull pulls apart Krem’s binder and pulls it off under his shirt, kissing his shoulders and neck affectionately. Krem accuses him of teasing, but Bull can never really keep his hands off of Krem when they’re alone, even when he honestly means to.

 

They fall asleep unhurriedly, and Krem, blissfully, doesn’t dream.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is nothing but porn and feelings

Morning comes lazy and sweet. Kisses pass between the pair, anywhere but on the lips. Horns, eyelids, chins, necks, collar bones are peppered lovingly and tiredly as the lovers disentangle from one another and fight the urge to drift right back to sleep. Bull’s voice is even deeper and rumblier first thing in the morning, and he complains about the only thing lacking when they get to stay in real beds is his missing cup of morning cider.

 

He lays with his head across Krem’s cushiony chest, playing idly with the strings of his shirt, listening to Krem’s heart beat while the boy languidly runs his fingers through the grooves of the scars on Bull’s face and shoulders.

 

Krem feels even better the fourth day, not least because he's spending a late morning in bed with the Bull. They stop pretending to have any particular ambitions for the day early on, which suits him just fine, after such a trying mission. As he runs his fingers back up the Qunari's face, through stubble, across cheekbone, he goes quiet the way he usually does when he starts to look at the cloth bandage around the Bull's face.

 

Only, this particular morning, after a moment's melancholy, Krem gasps and starts to get up with the Bull still on top of him.

 

"I still have a gift for you, I can't believe I forgot!" he exclaims, and urges, "Up, up!" When he actually locates the gift, wrapped in simple cotton and tied with twine, he hesitates, suddenly nervous, before finally placing it in the Bull's hands. "I hope you like it, chief."

 

Bull looks down at the parcel and up to Krem’s face for encouragement before he pulls open the loose twine knot, and the cloth falls open in his hand. In the center of his palm, a shining black metal triangular patch with curled corners sits, beautifully engraved with swirling patterns. Bull’s breath leaves his body in one long gust as he stares at the trinket, with its sturdy black strap, attached to a loop that looks like it will fit perfectly around his horn.

 

“You... this is ridiculous, how much did this cost?” he says breathlessly, looking up at Krem.

 

"Nothing I can't afford," Krem waves the question away, and looks up at the Bull nervously, "Is it too much? I thought it'd suit you, but... I mean, you wouldn't _have_ to wear it."

 

“No, no, it’s--” Bull can’t find the words. He traces massive, calloused fingertips over the curved metal edges, his breath catching in his throat after a moment. He’s been wearing the same tattered red cloth strip for months now, ever since he needed to stop changing out his bandages when the wound healed.

 

Seeing this in his hand is a mark of how far he and Krem have come. How far they’ve come together, and as individuals. It’s a beautiful, engraved marker of their journey from strangers to friends to lovers to something even more powerful now, something deeper that Qunari don’t even have a word for, something Bull doesn’t have the language to describe. They’re joined at the soul, two halves of one whole person.

 

“It’s perfect,” he says and he realizes very suddenly that he’s _crying_ , and reaches up to wipe away his tears with a startled laugh. “I haven’t cried in years, you ass.”

 

"I won't let anyone know you've gone soft, it's alright," Krem teases, as his eyes prick in response to the Bull's tears. He leans up to kiss his eyelid, and then the bandage, just below what he knows is an empty socket.

 

With careful hands, and scarcely a breath shared between them, he unties the bandage, and picks the eyepatch out of the Bull's hands to slip the leather loop down his right horn and fasten it around his face. "Oh, chief," he says, sitting back to take in the effect, and agrees with him, "It's perfect."

 

The Bull stands up in full nude glory to admire his reflection in the mirror over the table in the corner. “It really does suit me, doesn’t it? I always knew I was destined to wear shiny, pretty things. I should have been born a princess. I would have been a damn good princess.”

 

He crawls back across the bed, his face feeling lighter than it has in a very long time, the thick cloth strips replaced by a weightless, shimmering patch of metal. “And you’d be my prince charming, wouldn’t you? Come to my tower playing a lute or some shit, sing me to my window until I let down my long flowing horns for you to climb.”

 

"I can't carry a tune, if you haven't noticed," Krem reminds him with a laugh, laying down and tugging the Bull's arms to straddle him. He kisses the eyepatch, and then the Bull's lips.

 

They kiss a while, slow and languid, until Krem feels near as drunk with it as he did with ale the night before. "Say," he says, "Haven't you got a gift for me as well?"

 

“Oh,” Bull clears his throat and sits up, his cheeks flushing as he thinks back on his gift. “Well, I mean, yes, sort of, but it can wait. It doesn’t really feel like the right... time. You just gave me something so wonderful that means so much, my gift just feels flippant now. I can give it later, it’s not going anywhere."

 

Krem cocks his head to one side, arching a brow. "With a face like that, now I must know," he says, but the Bull only look more embarrassed. Krem laughs and places a hand on his lover's cheek. "C'mon, chief, show me what you've got for me! I'll keel over from suspense, I'm warning you."

 

“Mm, alright,” Bull mutters. “But no laughing at me, got it? If you laugh, I’m taking it back and you don’t get it at all.”

 

He retrieves a brown paper-covered box and hands it out to Krem. With great care, Krem opens the paper and lifts the lid of the wooden box inside. At first he can’t even tell what he’s looking at, it appears to be some kind of harness, going by the straps and ring, it looks like something a great warrior might wear in the center of his chest, but as he lifts it up, he recognizes it’s distinctly more pelvis-shaped, and the ring in the middle would center right over his pubic mound.

 

With confusion, he lifts the layer of silk inside and finds a beautifully carved, hand-rendered replica of a penis (a rather large one at that) silken in texture and milky in color, with swirls of ivory, sandy pale tan and peachy white-pink.

 

“Dragon bone,” Bull laughs sheepishly. “I thought it would be a clever pun. Bone... _bone_. You know.” he shrugs heavily. “It’s dumb, I apologize.”

 

Speechless, Krem traces his fingers down the length of the carved bone, polished and cool to the touch. He pick it up, gasps softly at the _weight_ of it, his cheeks suffused in color. He kneels up on the bed, holds the straps of the harness to himself with one hand, places the dildo over the ring, and feels his breath catch just looking down on himself.

 

He hasn't spoken in all this time, and he looks up to a nervous, fidgeting Bull, but there's hardly reason for nerves, when Krem's eyes are watery as they are, looking as utterly touched as he is.

 

"I didn't realize this even existed," he says, softer than he meant, "And you'd really... do this? With me?" Bull's alluded to it since their first dalliance, but it never crossed Krem's mind that it could happen in reality.

 

Bull laughs in relief. “Come on, lad,” he leans back on his hands. “I’ve been talking about how much I want you to fuck me for months now. Did you think I was lying?”

 

He reaches out and drags Krem towards him by the hip until they meet at the lips, and he pulls the boy into his lap so the toy settles between them. Krem feels small in his arms, but he knows of the power hidden in his body, and he shivers to think of what will come of it when they first put their new toy to good use.

 

“I dare say that once you’ve got the hang of that thing, you’ll be fucking me more often than the other way around,” he says, nibbling up Krem’s jaw to nuzzle against his ear.

 

"Not lying, so much as... _fantasizing_ , maybe," Krem replies, letting the tangle of harness and dildo lay between them as he puts his palms on either side of the Bull's face and kisses him, again and again. "Maker knows I've imagined it, and now..."

 

"Now," Krem repeats, his voice low, his loins warm between his legs, "Now, chief, help me put it on, let's do it now."

 

“Now?” Bull tenderly places his hand on Krem’s injured side. The potions have done their job in stitching him back up, there’s nothing but a angry pink scar left behind, but he’s still seen Krem wincing these last few days. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself for this. We have all the time in the world, don’t we?”

 

 _Have we, though?_ Krem is suddenly tempted to ask, but he doesn't. It certainly wouldn't get what he wants, which is to experience this act from the side he'd always imagined. Now that it is within reach he _aches_ for it, feels reckless with his desire, but that's exactly what he needs to prove to the Bull he _isn't_.

 

"We have our watchword, haven't we?" he asks, testing his teeth upon the Bull's lower lip, smoothing his hands down his large chest, "I'll speak up if it's too much, honest I will." He presses his body against the Bull's, strokes his hands upon the tops of his thighs, and then draws an unsteady breath.

 

"I want to fuck you, chief," he breaths, hardly able to get the words out, with the imagery of it arousing him so strongly, "If I tire... you could always ride me, couldn't you?"

 

Bull feels a powerful clenching of everything from his belly down and his breath hitches in his throat. “You are absolutely right,” he growls, dragging Krem higher up his body and tipping back to lay across the covers with his thighs spread. Krem fits perfectly between his legs, and he rubs his bare feet up the back of the boy’s calves. “You had better ask me if I know the watchword, though. What if I have a hard time taking your cock? You need to look after your sub, Krem,” he teases, groping his ass and grinding his hips up against the boy’s lower belly.

 

Krem shivers at "your cock", almost overwhelmed by how right it sounds, definitely overwhelmed by how the Bull has never missed an opportunity to affirm him. He moans, let his hands drag down the Qunari's front, down his warm belly, feeling the skin there, hard beneath a layer of soft.

 

"Fair enough," he says with a heavy lidded smile, "Do you remember what to say if you need me to stop?"

 

“Mmm, katoh,” Bull grins proudly and takes Krem’s lips again in a kiss. “I’m at your mercy, now. No more orders from me, you may do as you wish. Anything you desire of me is yours, you need only ask.”

 

"Is that very different from normal?" Krem asks with an impish smile, before claiming the Bull's mouth in a deep kiss, not surfacing until they are both breathless, their lips bruised. Krem pulls his shirt off then, with only a minor twinge of shame that is lessening with every time he reveals himself to the Qunari.

 

"I know a passable amount about this," he says, reaching down to palm the underside of the Bull's heavy cock, "But for _this_ ," he continues, reaching further, brushing lightly with two fingers upon the Bull's perineum, and the hole below, "I'm afraid I'll need instruction."

 

Bull gasps and his hips jerk downwards against the brief and soft touch. His head falls back into the pillow and with a rumbling moan, he rocks his hips down. “I’ve always responded well to any kind of touch there,” he says honestly, licking his lips and glancing over at the oil lamp on the side table, unlit in the light of morning. “You can use that oil there to slick the way, since I don’t make my own.”

 

It makes Krem's pulse tick up to watch the effect just a slight touch has on the Bull. He would surely laugh if he knew how many times so far Krem has been struck and restruck by the knowledge that the Bull earnestly, honestly desires this. As he leans over to take the Bull's advice and coat two of his fingers generously with oil, he can feel how his own sex grows wet in anticipation.

 

With one hand flat upon the Bull's thigh, he reaches his fingers between his ass, taking the opportunity to truly explore the area. He pets along beneath his balls, his hole, further up his cleft, until he is slick all around the outside.

 

"Do you take things inside often?" he asks, as he presses the tip of his finger inside, watching in open fascination as strong muscles twitch around him. To have this warm place surrounding a real prick... the idea makes him dizzy.

 

“Often, no,” Bull’s voice is tighter now with pleasure as he rocks down cautiously on Krem’s fingers. He gasps as Krem ventures a little deeper, his head swimming with desire as the muscles in his thighs twitch. He had feared that Krem’s fingers would be too small, but he forgot to take into account the discrepancy between how big things look and how big they feel. “Unsurprisingly, most partners that I bed want me on top,” he gives a breathy chuckle. “But the few times I have been able to indulge-- more often with my own fin-- fuck-- fingers than with a partner, it has been glorious. You can do no wrong.”

 

Krem chuckles, low and delighted as he continues his exploration, slipping his finger in and out shallowly, feeling the way the tight ring of muscle sucks him in, like it's hungry– like Bull is _hungry_ for him. He collects more oil, letting it drizzle down his crack, and with the Bull's gasping assurance, Krem pushing the finger fully inside and wiggles it a bit.

 

"Is there a way that feels best?" he asks, "I like hearing you talking to me while I do this to you, chief."

 

“Up, angle up,” Bull instructs breathlessly. “Like you’re pointing to my navel-- _fuck_ ,” his sentence breaks off into fragments when Krem does as he’s told and makes contact with the edge of his prostate. “Almost, just a little deeper, just a hair’s breadth-- _FUCK_ ,” he claps a hand over his mouth, reminded suddenly that they’re in a tavern, his cheeks burning red and his ears practically bleeding they’re so flushed.

 

Krem's free hand grip the Bull's thigh for a moment, and he curses in Tevene. It's not like the Bull has never reacted like this that Krem has witnessed, but further along, closer to his peak. Maker, they've barely _begun_.

 

"Feeling good, chief?" he asks, meaning to tease, but it comes out awed, hopelessly aroused. Krem wets his lips and begins to trace along the very slight nub that seems to cause the Bull the most pleasure, his other hand begin to absently stroke his leg as he pets and prods and strokes.

 

“Fuck, yes,” Bull laughs, gripping the sheets beneath him as he rocks his hips down with purpose. “Your cock is going to feel better, speed the prep up a bit would you, I’m not made of glass. I need your cock inside me as quickly as possible, I can’t carry on in life if you don’t stick it to me in the next five minutes.”

 

"Yes, chief," Krem replies, snickering, and begins to work a second finger inside without delay. He's still a bit tentative at first, and it isn't until the Bull pleads with him again, so not treat him so fragile, that he begins to pump his fingers, stretching him wider and as deep as he can reach.

 

"Another?" he asks, and gets a moaned approval. The Bull takes him beautifully, and Krem kisses his knee, humming in approval. "I can't wait to fuck you," he groans.

 

Bull’s cock gives a mighty throb at the words as they spill from Krem’s lips. He lifts his head and drags a pillow beneath it to prop up and watch the boy’s face as he works. He looks at Bull reverently, with adoration in his eyes that makes Bull’s heart ache as much as his prick.

 

“You look good like this,” he rasps, his voice heavy and dark with pleasure. “You were made for this, Krem.”

 

He throws his head back again as his cock drips onto his belly with a hard pulse when Krem’s fingers hit home again. “Enough, let me get the harness on you,” he begs, and Krem straddles his belly easily as he opens the buckles and situates it over Krem’s trousers. When the flared base of the dildo is locked into the ring at the front of Krem’s pelvis, Bull drags him forward by the ass so he’s perched over his chest, and he tilts his head down to suck on the first few inches of the length. Opening his eyes, he gazes up at Krem, worshipful and needing, as the boy takes hold of his horns and watches in awe, the sight of Bull sucking a cock between his legs.

 

The harness fits tight, the straps around his thighs and ass and waist snug and secure in a way Krem finds very compelling. More than compelling is the way the base of the dildo fit against him, most of it braced upon his pubic bone, but part of it, a blessed part of it, grinds against his nether regions, giving him a jolt of pleasure that draws a gasp right out of him when the Bull takes hold.

 

More than anything else, however, is the visual. He strokes a hand over the Bull's face, his hips rocking gently as he watches his lover take in his cock. _His_ cock. It feels right in a way he hasn't experienced before.

 

"Oh, _kaffas_ , Bull," he moans softly, "I love you so much it aches."

 

“How do you want me?” Bull asks, his lips shiny with saliva as he pulls back to look up at the boy. “Short of bending me in half I can do almost any position. Tried upside down, once. _Bitch_ on my neck.”

 

Krem considers his options, unable to lift his eyes from the Bull's mouth. "I want to see your face," he realizes as he says it, and looks up, "I want... to see what this does to you."

 

And so they situate themselves, putting a couple pillows beneath the Bull to prop him up and give Krem a little less work to do to get a good angle. Krem scoops up more oil, slicking up his dragonbone cock until it is glistening, and lines up, the hand spreading the Bull's cheeks apart trembling a little. The tip of the dildo sits at the Bull's opening, already cooled down from when he had it in his mouth.

 

“Go on,” Bull encourages. “You’re ready for this.”

 

When Krem slides inside, Bull’s mouth falls open and his head drops back, and he lets out one long, moaning sigh of bliss. It’s been so long since he’s felt full like this, and the stretch and ache burn him to the very core. He fists the blankets, his thighs shaking on either side of Krem as he realizes very abruptly they’ve made the transition from fucking into lovemaking.

 

“Oh, fuck, fuck me, fuck me, Krem, _fuck me_ ,” he begs, even though he knows this is something more emotional, this is something deeper and more important, this is Krem’s cock, this is their first time cracking the whip at penetrative sex, this covers so many milestones and breaks so much ground, and Bull absolutely does not have tears in his eyes of pride for the boy between his legs.

 

The Bull is gorgeous in his pleasure, and Krem's heart swells within his chest as he takes him by the hips and does as he's bade, his cock rocking in and out in swallow thrusts that grow deeper, smoother as he slowly get the hang of things.

 

"It feels– fuck, it feels good," he tells the Bull with a delighted laugh, "T-tell me how you feel, please..." He shifts his angle every couple of thrusts, until he happens upon what he fingers had already found before, if the way Bull roars and his cock twitches is any indication. "Touch yourself," Krem gasps, "I-I don't know if I can coordinate both."

 

Bull grips his cock and strokes in time with Krem’s tentative thrusts. “Fuck, Maker, it feels good, Krem, fuck it’s--” his sentences fragment and break off at the ends into moans. He’s completely forgotten they’re in a tavern, and can only hope that the surrounding rooms are filled with other Chargers, who are more than used to by now the sounds of their Commander in pleasure. “Your cock is perfect, it’s perfect, _fuck_ \--”

 

He knows he picked just the right size. He had been eyeing a shaft that had been a bit bigger, but decided to purchase the dragon bone not only for its size, but also just because he thought it would be funny, with the whole presumed dragon fetish thing. Now he knows he picked absolutely right, the girth is enough to burn him in just the right way, the length hits him where he needs to be hit, and he knows without a doubt that he and Krem will be doing this again and again, whenever they can find the time.

 

As Krem’s hips pick up speed with confidence, Bull’s hand moves to match it, pumping himself, the ring in the tip of his cock shaking from side to side as he moves his hips down to meet the boy’s thrusts. He covers his mouth a moment later, bites on his fingers to keep quiet, but it doesn’t last. Bull was not made to be quiet. “Your cock is so good,” he sighs out, his eyes opening to watch the reverent sight of Krem between his thighs.

 

Every time the Bull bucks his hips to swallow the dildo down again, it grinds the base against Krem's sex once again, so that he is gasping near as often as his lover is, although much quieter in his exertion. It's harder work than he imagined, fucking somebody, but it's the best sort of work Krem can imagine, when it's making the Bull fall completely apart in pleasure.

 

Kaffas, it's _him_ doing this to the Bull. _He's_ the one making him feel this way.

 

"You're so good," he pants, and renews his efforts to thrust against the Bull's sweet spot with every stroke, until he can scarcely get a breath out without it coming in the form of a moan. He wants to give him the best possible fuck he can. He wants to see him come, and he tells him so, between gasps.

 

Bull has completely fallen apart. No words leave him now, only guttural, animal sounds that might be frightening the people in the rooms on either side of them, but Bull can’t even think of them. He can’t think of anything but Krem’s cock, and the way it drives into him.

 

“I’m close--” He tells Krem in a choked voice as his pleasure mounts, filling him from his toes to his horns in a bright white glow. His muscles tense and shake and he loses the rhythm of his rocking, giving himself over to Krem’s forceful hips completely. “I’m gonna come-- I’m gonna come on your cock Krem, I’m--”

 

His orgasm rips out of him like a hurricane and he claps a hand over his mouth just in time to keep in the roar that leaves him. Head back, eye patch gathering light like a beacon, muscles rigid and cock spurting over his belly, Bull comes like a force of nature.

 

"Oh, chief," Krem gasps, laid low by the spectacle of it, by the way his heart rises to his throat. He lets go of the Bull's hips, running his palms up and down his sides, soothing him through the tremors, and grinds his clit against the base of his cock, still buried deep inside.

 

Krem is _soaking_ behind the rig, ridiculously turned on and marveling at his lover.

 

"You are incredible," he tells him.

 

Bull half opens weary, well-fucked eyes, grinning like a fool. “Get up here,” he rumbles, his voice thrashed by his own roaring. “Let me suck your cock.”

 

"Fasta _vass_ ," Krem whispers, and nods enthusiastically, although he takes his time in removing the dildo from the Bull's well-fucked ass. It comes out with an obscene wet sound that sends shivers down his spine.

 

Krem crawls over on shaky limbs, letting out a soft moan as he rubs a thumb across the Bull's lower lip with one hand, stroking his carved bone cock with the other. When he realizes the Bull means for him to straddle his chest, he whimpers all the more.

 

"Maker, I'm so ready," he informs him, like he can't already see it in Krem's face, can't already feel it when he slip his big fingers between his thighs, behind the metal ring, to feel how Krem has soaked through his trousers with his arousal.

 

Bull can’t help but laugh, charmed by Krem’s honest enthusiasm and easy mistake. “I mean your _real_ cock,” he smirks, stroking Krem behind the apparatus.

 

"Oh," Krem says, the word almost to soft to hear as his belly clenches and he puts his hands on the Bull's shoulders for a moment, dizzy with arousal and the way his heart is pounding out of his chest. He fumbles with the fasteners with clumsy hands until the Bull assists him, and then climbs to the side to peel his trousers and smalls off.

 

When he returns, it's in much the same position, straddling the Bull's face, entirely naked now, with his hands braced against the backboard of the bed.

 

Bull sucks him ravenously, he doesn’t even bother using his hands. He buries his face between Krem’s thighs and sucks, his own cock giving a feeble throb of arousal when Krem makes a wounded sound and doubles over, clutching his horns. He supports the boy’s bottom with his hands and licks the full length of him, burying his nose in Krem’s curls and inhaling deeply.

 

There’s nothing more gratifying than having somebody grab onto his horns and grind against his face, and he swears it gets better each and every time Krem does it.

" _Bull!"_ Krem sobs, and although he doesn't have quite the wall shaking shout of his lover, Krem is even less aware of his surroundings as he grinds himself hard against the Bull's face with abandon. The Qunari doesn't hold back, and Krem has been worked up long enough he doesn't shy away at all, letting out a warbling, desperate moan as the larger man sucks at him– suck at his _cock_.

 

"Oh, please, I'm there, I'm right there–" he gasps, scarcely giving the Bull room to breath in the force of his orgasm, wracking his body with tremors that leaves him woozy in the head and aching in the side. " _Oh_ ," he says again, when it is over, nearly tipping over if not for the Bull's hands on him.

 

Bull shushes him gently, gathers him in his arms and lays him down on the bed. He pets Krem’s side, kisses his scar, kisses up his chest and nuzzles his neck. “I love you,” he whispers, and he means it more than anything else in the entire world. No other combination of words in the entire Trade language has ever been more true. 


End file.
